


The Three Sisters

by grecianviolet



Category: AUSTEN Jane - Works, Original Work
Genre: F/M, References to Jane Austen, Regency, Regency Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2020-01-20
Packaged: 2020-05-31 15:17:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 33
Words: 79,877
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19428640
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grecianviolet/pseuds/grecianviolet
Summary: Maria, the first. Sophia, the eldest. Diana, the youngest. One too Spanish for London society. One whose heart remains in Cádiz. One too proud, passionate, and wanting. The marriage market of London awaits, but family history and secrets threaten to undo them all. A Regency novel of romance, ambition, and three women caught by birth between two nations.





	1. I

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this book initially in 2017 for NaNoWriMo and finished the first draft in 2018. I'm in the process of rewriting it now and would love to get some input. This book is essentially a love letter to the novels of Jane Austen. I wanted to write an Austen-ish story with some contemporary concerns and a bit more of a political angle. A lot of research has gone into this story...I hope it shows!
> 
> If you read and enjoy this story, please let me know. It's very close to my heart.

**The Three Sisters**

**Volume I**

**I**

"What do you suppose we should call her?"

"Her proper title is Lady Worthington. Until she invites greater intimacy, perhaps we should err to one side of formality."

"Perhaps? Do you mean to say you spent all last evening closeted with Mama and never asked her how we should address the woman upon whom our futures entirely depend?"

"If the matter was so important to you, I wonder you did not visit Mama herself. As it was, she had a headache yesterday evening and could barely speak. I was reading Papi's latest letter to her, that is all. It was all she was able to bear, and it seemed to soothe her."

Diana tossed her head, stung by Sophia's hint. "I was too preoccupied last night to do Mama any good; I am certain you made my apologies. But I do not understand you, Sophie. This may be the most important day in our lives, and you did not ask Mama a thing about it? I was awake half the night arranging the details of my dress—"

"I know," her sister sighed, "Our rooms adjoin and the walls were not near thick enough."

"My _dress_ ," Diana repeated, not to be talked over, "About which I am still not satisfied. Yet you behave as though you have not the slightest care, wearing, if you please, the same muslin morning gown you wore at home the day before yesterday."

"What would you have me do?" Sophia adjusted the sleeves of her gown, pleased with how the simple printed frock set off the rich darkness of her hair, "Have a new dress made up simply to visit our aunt?"

"Our aunt by marriage only. It is prudent to cultivate the best possible impression, especially since Mama is not here to prove the family connection."

Sophia turned away to hide her smile. Her sister's politic prudence had grown like a weed since their arrival in Portsmouth. As Diana was always conscious of how she was seen and thought of by others, she had developed a keen instinct for London society. Sophia was often quietly amazed by how her sister had caught the frothy, inconsequential London tone, navigating new neighbors and acquaintance with equal aplomb.

It was doubly astonishing when one considered that neither sister had ever before been to their mother's country. They gleaned what understanding they had formed of England from newspapers and novels.

Aplomb Sophia had, along with the graceful civility their mother insisted upon, but bubbles and froth escaped her still.

"Perhaps you are right," was all she said, studying the careful way Diana adjusted her ribbons and frills.

Diana, catching her sister's keen eye, smiled. "Do not worry. You look lovely, and our aunt could never guess your dress is not new. Your secret is safe with me."

"Thank you. You are the very soul of discretion."

For a moment, there was silence between them, broken only by the tinkling jingle of carriage harness and brisk hooves clattering on cobblestones. Then, clear as a church's Sunday bell, the two sisters laughed a merry peal.

"I hope I do not shame you overmuch, my dear," Sophia patted Diana's hand, "Remember, I depend on you to keep me from making a fool of myself in front of the quality."

Diana shook her head, "As if you could ever be a fool. No one I know—including Father—has ever had sense like yours. I would never doubt it; I pray you do not."

At this kind speech, Sophia smiled into Diana's earnest gray eyes.

"Well, now I never shall," she would have preferred to dispense with the comparison to their father, but she was touched nonetheless, "Now, compose yourself. If I am not mistaken, that was the turn into Harley Street."

Diana gasped, tearing away to press her nose to the carriage glass. Harley Street indeed stretched before them, an expanse of clean cobbles and well-dressed men and women taking the air by foot, barouche, or phaeton. The November air was not yet too cool for such displays, and so Diana had more to remark on, in appearance and dress of the crowded street, than her eyes could possibly take in.

Their own heavy, closed carriage rolled to a stop shortly after; the footman helped them alight in front of a well-appointed home, which tall windows were framed by wide-open curtains. A woman sat on a chase before one of them, eyes darting from one figure to another as they crossed her view.

Sophia saw a faint expression of surprise and disdain on that haughty face as their eyes met; when they passed on, Sophia felt herself dismissed, unworthy of notice.

Perhaps she _ought_ have worn a new dress. She banished the thought with a jerk of her pointed chin.

Fortunately, Diana had been too busy to notice the woman's gaze fixing squarely upon them, too preoccupied in fluffing and arranging her layers of lace, flattened during the journey.

"Come along now," Sophia could not bear to see her fuss, "You look well enough."

Arm-in-arm, they approached the front door. Sophia's hand had scarce touched the bell when that great portal opened to reveal a liveried and powdered butler.

He regarded them with the same lofty air as his mistress. "Good morning. May I help you?"

"Miss Herrera and Miss Diana Herrera to see her Ladyship," Sophia was pleased her heart only fluttered an instant as she spoke.

She read unease in the furrow of the butler's brow, but he merely bowed as they passed him in the foyer.

"If you would be so kind to wait, Miss..." he paused.

"Herrera."

"Miss Herrera. I will announce you to my mistress."

No sooner was he gone than Diana turned to the nearest mirror, wetting one finger and attempting to set a troublesome curl to rights. Her plump mouth pouted at its reflection.

This time it was the elder sister comforting the younger. "You needn't fret, dearest. No one who knows you could fail to love you."

Diana smiled, but the butler's reappearance forestalled any reply. He led them into a drawing room, lined in panels of chartreuse brocade and filled with furniture of the newest style, upholstered in matching fabric. Her ladyship did not stir from her chaise.

The two girls curtsied as the door closed behind them.

"Well, well. When I received my sister in law's letter, I assumed she would be with you when we met first. I take it you are Sophia," she gestured with a lacy handkerchief, "and _you_ are Diana?"

"Yes. I must beg your pardon, Lady Worthington," Sophia said, "but the journey was difficult for my mother and she has not yet recovered enough to go into company. She sends her best wishes, and hopes you received her letters?"

"Yes, yes, but who can find time to write letters nowadays? I suppose it does not matter; we shall meet again one of these days, doubtless. What are you still standing for? Sit down, sit down. No need to stand gawking. Tea?"

It was early, but Sophia nodded. "Your ladyship is very kind."

"Well, and how do you find London?" Lady Worthington kept one eye on the street as she spoke. "A far cry from...where was it my sister eloped to?"

"Cádiz, your ladyship."

Diana put in, "London is quite different, but very beautiful. There are so many things to see."

Lady Worthington sniffed. "The season is not yet begun. If my husband did not always insist upon arriving early, I should be in Surrey still. The trials of a politician's wife, you know. He has his acquaintance in town, while I am forced to make do with nothing," it was unclear whether she considered the sisters to be _something_ , "But I suppose that even a thin London must have far more to interest than...oh, remind me?"

After a moment's thought, Sophia was able to supply, "Cádiz," the sisters exchanged a glance, "Indeed."

"Spain is very beautiful," Diana spoke up stoutly in defense of what she loved, flushed pink as the gown she wore, "London may have more shops and the newest theater, but Cádiz has its own culture and quality. I am sure if your ladyship were acquainted with it, she would find much to appreciate."

"To be sure," Lady Worthington shook her head, "but, to be sure, Spanish culture, my dear. I cannot understand why your mother took so long to bring you back to England. Surely she felt how wrong she was to deprive you of your true heritage."

It was necessary to keep speaking, if only to keep Diana from doing so. Her color was alarmingly high.

"Our mother is very pleased to be back, the more so since she may see her family again. And we have been so happy to meet everyone."

"Indeed. Well, I am very pleased to have two such lovely ladies to add to my circuit this year," one laconic eye swept them from head to toe, "Yes, yes. You will be the talk of the town, I am sure. A good scandal never quite dies, does it?"

The question was not for them, so neither bothered to answer. A brief interlude of tea tray and cake followed, during which Diana drank a full cup and poured another before the bright splotches of anger faded from her cheeks.

Sophia sipped her tea at strategic intervals, as when her imagination failed to supply her with a single topic on which they might all comfortably converse. New books and plays, alluded to by Diana, were swiftly run through, as her ladyship remembered little of the ones she had seen and cared even less for the ones she had not. Family history, a subject of much interest, was too fraught with danger to approach.

In the end, the sisters encouraged a lame discourse on fashion, carried mostly between Diana's passion for designing her own gowns and her ladyship's high-handed proclamations as an arbiter of London style.

Sophia was just wondering how behindhand their footman was in returning for them when the clock chimed. Surely they had not been speaking for a mere quarter of an hour! She had never known minutes to drag so, like stubborn mules in harness.

"...yours for instance, Miss Diana, is precisely what I myself would have made up were I a younger woman," for the first time, a smile showed on her ladyship's face as she regarded how well Diana's gown suited her, "ah, me. What a pity youth fades so quickly! Your sister now, she dresses very sensibly for a girl her age."

At only four and twenty, she found this compliment a bit difficult to accept, but even her pride was not too great a sacrifice to burn on the altar of family peace. Diana's swift defense would have to be comfort enough.

"Sophia looks lovely no matter what she wears," she said, "I defy any women to show better taste."

Sophia was very glad to be relieved of the need to absolve herself of the compliment. The bell's ring was swiftly followed by the butler announcing the arrival of their carriage. From there, nothing more than a series of insincere effusions and half-feigned wishes to meet again stood between them and the safety of privacy.

Once the carriage door closed safely behind them, Diana let off a sigh like a whistling kettle.

"I have never in my _life_ met such a..." words failed her, "Our mother always spoke so highly of her brother. How could he marry such a...a _woman_?"

Free to laugh, Sophia did, drawing down the shades so she could rest against the carriage cushions without fear of judgment. Lady Worthington had provided more than enough of _that_ for one day, perhaps even by London standards.

"Surely you have had enough suitors to know how men may find a pretty face and a prettier fortune enough to rob them of your common sense? I am certain that Lady Worthington possessed both, once upon a time. Her fortune, at least, is still evident."

"I should never have asked my suitors to forsake their sense," Diana retorted, not to be calmed by her sister's forced indifference to their slights, "The way she spoke to us; to _you_! And we are chained to her for the duration of our stay in London!"

"I cannot but agree," though she did so with a sigh, "but as you say, we are chained to her. Yet, she is perhaps the key that will unlock our lives here in London. And if we mean to do what our father wishes..." she shook her head and did not finish.

Diana laid her head against Sophia's shoulder, careless of the hot-pressed curls she had woken an hour early to perfect. They rocked together in close, dark silence.

"You are right, of course," she admitted, "Yet, is not finding a husband challenge enough?"

* * *


	2. II

**II**

"Truly Mama, you should have warned us!" Sophia helped Mrs. Herrera to a glass of watered Madeira, pouring one for herself as well, "Many a time I have stood between my sister and such of our father's more _familiar_ business associates, and even my talents were strained to the utmost today."

Mrs. Herrera's smile held only a glimmer of its usual radiant mirth, but it was enough to warm her daughter to the bone.

"To tell the truth, I had forgot the more colorful shades of Amelia's character. Distance and time can soften the most cruel eccentricities. Your story brings them to me again, but I must say I had not expected her to show such disrespect to my daughters."

"Perhaps I exaggerate. Her ladyship was...well, one could not call her amiable, but she was no worse than many women of her rank and situation."

"Oh? I had no idea you were so familiar with the rank and file of London society," Mrs. Herrera's raised brow and gentle smile teased, "I always thought Diana was the devotee of Mrs. Hayver's novels, not you."

Sopha shrugged. "It is only that one hears stories, and one assumes they cannot all be inaccurate. Not to mention our duenna's tales of Spanish high society. Are not the rich the same wherever they are found?"

"Then you think those tales applicable to Englishmen?"

"I think the differences between nations are thought to be chasms when they are merely cracks."

"Hmm."

Mrs. Herrera regarded her daughter with even eyes, eyes so soft and benign it took a lifetime's experience to read the unbending pride and ever-present humor within. Diana had the color and shape of her mother's eyes, brilliant gray as smoked jewels, but no hint of that subtle personality. That was Sophia's inheritance. Yet the daughter often felt she lacked the elegance that rested in every fine line of her mother's face.

Years of trials—brought on by youthful imprudence—had driven Mrs. Herrera to a great deal of inward self-reflection. An Englishwoman living in Spain, though married to a Spaniard, was often bereft of congenial companions, and Mrs. Herrera had, until her daughters were grown, lacked any confidante with which to share her feelings.

It was perhaps better for both daughters that they could not claim their mother's iron self-command, since this was the cost of it.

The two women sat comfortably in Mrs. Herrera's bedchamber, the mother swathed in layers of dressing gowns and caps, wings of hair combed smooth and shining as a swallow's wings. Her doctor had recommended a diluted glass of wine of an evening to assist with sleep; mother and daughter had come to share it together during the sevennight since their arrival in London.

"I am pleased you and Diana managed to control yourselves."

"Yes. I believe you would have been quite proud of us."

"I am always proud of you, but I fear in this case holding your tongue must have cost you dearly."

"Let me only say there is a reason I rested fully two hours before our engagement with the Banners at the Little Theater."

"Did you enjoy the show? What did you see?"

" _The Heir at Law_. It was a good deal more amusing to watch than read. I am glad—"

"Yes?"

Sophia paused to arrange her broken thought, fearing the truth of it would pain her mother. "It is only that I am glad we are here, that we may finally experience what we have studied so long. Shakespeare, Goldsmith, Marlowe...it is as if they are only alive on the stage."

Mrs. Herrera nodded, brow contracting as she sipped her wine. "I have often blamed myself for not having sent you girls back to England to be tutored with my cousins. The Fairchilds, perhaps. Brighton is not London, but it is certainly better than Cádiz."

"Oh, Mama," Sophia sighed, "We love our home! We were so happy there. We had our education from books, but where but Cádiz could we have learned the wild beauty of nature? I should not trade riding the cliffs over Cartagena or bathing at Valencia either, not for a box at any play in the world."

Sophia's studied English accent, patterned down to the very lilt of her mother's, gave way to gentle Spanish consonants.

"No," she concluded, stoutly, "We were much better off as we were."

"Well," her mother smiled, eyes adrift in the tide of recollection Sophia's words raised, "What's done is done, and the past cannot be changed. Your father would never have endured the thought of sending you away, however it might have benefited you. I remember," her little shudder was only half-feigned, "I raised the idea once, and _only_ once. Such a temper he had!

"So," she shook off the memory, "whatever foundations my mistakes have laid for you will have to be endured, that is all."

" _You_ have made no mistakes, Mama."

"And _you_ are too good," Mrs. Herrera reached for the side table with her empty glass, sighing when her daughter took it deftly from her hand and set it aside. "Far too good to me."

"Nonsense," Diana entered just in time to catch the remark, "No one could be too good to you, even such a saint as Sophia. How are you, dearest Mama?" she planted a kiss on Mrs. Herrera's brow and nestled down into the spare space left beside her on the bed.

"Well enough, my dear. Soon you shall have your old Mama about with you to bother and provoke."

"You silly, you must know I have been dying for your advice these three days at least. Mrs. Banner _will_ persist in her invitations to tea, and picnics, and everything, which only proves my theory that she and her son are plotting together against our poor Sophie's peace of mind and wholeness of heart."

" _Mine_?" Sophia chuckled at the idea, "He has never once addressed an invitation to me!"

"It is all part of their strategy, I am sure. I depend upon Mama's agreeing with me."

"And so I shall, I am sure, once I have taken measurement of Mr. Banner's character," Mrs. Herrera muffled a cough in one of Sophia's embroidered handkerchiefs, "But just now I beg your pardon. It is rather late in the day to render judgment on a man I do not know."

"Listen to Diana's account of our trip to the theater and you will soon know all you need. And if there _is_ a plot, I suspect a different object than she does. Or perhaps," she tipped her glass to Diana, "there is a plot of _yours_."

Diana laughed, resting her cheek on Mrs. Herrera's lace cap. "So suspicious. You will never make a match that way."

"Perhaps I had rather not make a match at all," she remarked, "Is that not your objective? It would not be sporting of me to get in your way."

"There are more than enough men in London to accommodate us both. Do be practical, Sophie."

"I am always practical."

"Except when you are otherwise," Diana shook her head. "Listen to her, Mama! You would think that Sophia had never made a mistake or spoken without due consideration in her life."

"She has made few enough mistakes, it is true," their mother's eyes gleamed in the dancing firelight, "Sometimes I own I would she were more like you. Being a little carried away by one's feelings does no harm."

Finishing her wine, Sophia set down the glass with a sharp tinkle. "I promise, the moment I see a man worth being a little carried away by, I shall let him carry me to your hearts' content. But when I do, you must both promise to make no comments regarding reckless behavior, up to and including evening soirees, shadowed boxes at the theater, or late night promenades."

"But such promises would be reckless indeed. No, I think Mama and I must be excused."

"I agree. We reserve the right to be as contrary as we like."

"Then I forswear all potential infatuations, beguiling though they might be. And now, I think you must excuse me. I was ready for bed shortly after tea."

Merry 'good-nights' chased her from the room. As Sophia closed her mother's door behind her, her lungs expanded with a deep gasp of relief. In the darkened hall all was quiet, and the painted eyes of the portraits on the wall could not measure her every step down the corridor. It was the first moment she had been unobserved this entire everlasting day.

The impersonal quality of her own bedroom was another balm to her frayed nerves. Her watercolors, cushions, and tapestry work were all on display in the morning room; serving, as she scornfully remarked, as advertisement for any visiting gentlemen.

_A young lady of four and twenty summers, accomplishments in all typical fields, sound of limb and tooth._

One thing only had she reserved for herself. It was a view of the sea from a rocky shore below Cartagena, sketched in a cove sheltered by twisted trees stunted by constant salt-breezes.

Maria had shown the place to her, urging their horses over the slippery tidal trail and navigating the waves deft as a mermaid. How Sophia had envied her half-sister's natural grace! How watching her sure, bare feet step from one stone to the other had given her own awkward limbs courage!

Perhaps it was her imagination, but Sophia thought she could still smell the ocean wafting from the painting's canvas fibers. The scent, imagined or no, was a comforting piece of home.

Her maid had banked the fire well against the night, red shadows sliding wild against demure, striped blue-and-cream wallpaper. Its light was too dim to read by; Sophia dipped a fresh candle between the coals and touched its bright flame to two others.

Maria's letters were tied in red silk, bound by the very ribbon her sister had slid from her hair during their last farewell on the quay. Loosed, Maria's curls had danced on every breath of wind, free in a way neither of them were permitted to be.

By candlelight, Maria's hand was ephemeral as spider-silk.

_Cari_ _ñ_ _a Sophia,_

_I should tell you of our news. Doubtless it will not interest you, now you are in London. Papi is well; he asks me daily why you have not written, and scours your letters to me if I do not conceal them. He misses all of you terribly. But I know I miss you most. I miss you like a hole in my heart._

_Your father is not the only one who asks why you have not written. D finds me in the market every day to ask after you. Every day! I hear the merchants thinking to themselves that he has a_ pasión _for me, he so often seeks me out._

_Please write. It will give me something to tell. And write because I miss you, mi hermanita, mi querida._

Sophia read no more and folded the letter, binding it back under silk. Would that she could close her heart as easily against her pain.

Well, she could not. And if she could not dismiss her pain, she resolved to work through it. Finishing the task her maid had begun an hour before, Sophia let down the coil of hair that weighted her head like a crown, brushing the thick mass of it until it glowed even in faint firelight. It was a paternal inheritance, this heavy, dark hair waving down over a low forehead. Like most gifts from her father, it came with unwelcome associations. Though her hair curled in the same way curls frothed over Maria's brow, those same curls also clustered at her father's temples.

Sophia set the brush down a bit too firmly and tied her braid with a jerk.

She would write him tomorrow. Her foolish indulgence in this regard was not only childish, it might prove fatal. Their seven days in London would extend to encompass many more, it was true, but who could tell whither they would ultimately remain? She might yet be called upon to return to Spain and her father's side.

This thought too, was tainted by mixed emotions. Lying in her cold bed, she imagined a Spanish sun shaded by a veil of black lace. She recalled dances in public courtyards, smiling at grinning strangers, laughing with merchants in the marketplace.

These imaginings could not lull her to sleep. Sophia lay awake for many hours, watching fairy-flames writhe against the wall.


	3. III

**III**

Hyde Park's lake barely deserved its lofty title. Even the lowering sunlight of early evening was enough to reveal its bottom, mere inches distant from its surface. 'Puddle' would have been more accurate. Yet the shallow spread of it was a picturesque mirror for the tall trees that waved gracefully in a dignified breeze, genteel as the ladies and gentlemen strolling about its borders.

Their party was an assortment of a dozen young people brought together by the Herreras' earliest London acquaintance, the Banners. They joined an assembly of Coxes, Peels, and Corks, people of high fashion exceeding modest fortunes and families.

They were too early for the season; such was the threadbare topic passed endlessly from hand to hand. Too early for anything of interest in town; all was deathly dull with not a thing to do. Voices wore to fretfulness on the singular theme until Sophia's feet itched to spirit her away from the chorus of complaints.

Not that she disagreed. She remarked as much to her companion, Miss Banner.

"Perhaps there are few sights to see about town," she said, "yet there are still beautiful things to be found, if one would only look. See how those dying leaves float on the lake, like little vessels of gold!"

"Miss Herrera," the girl sighed, "how poetic! I think the leaves are very pretty as well. I would have said as much myself, in a moment."

It was as much relief as Sophia could hope for; she kept all finer thoughts to herself.

"Oh, Mr. Banner, that is only because you lack imagination!"

A patter of shocked laughter rippled away from Diana's cry, the first spirited effusion any of them had put forth in a quarter-hour. Mr. Banner only grinned at her accusation, lounging against the cushions of their picnic spread.

"Your words sting, Miss Diana. If you know of some heathen charm by which we might banish this boredom, I am sure we all wait to hear it."

"Perhaps," Miss Banner put in with a giggle, "you know of some new game! I am sure the games are different in Spain, are they not?"

"They are, yet what I have in mind is known to every child in the world, I daresay. I propose," Diana paused for effect, "a race."

Groans, protestations. They were _not_ children; moreover, they had eaten and drunk too much to move. Diana brushed these concerns away.

"Surely they do not feel fatigue as we do," Miss Catherine Cork murmured to Mr. Ashley, a breath above _sotto voce_ , "being from such a hot climate. Do not let them sway us; I depend upon you, sir."

"I believe I know what you have in mind," Sophia said, drowning out Miss Cork's disagreeable aside, "There is a suitable tree just there, with leaves broad enough for all. Miss Banner and I have been watching them float these past few minutes."

"Ah, a leaf-boat race!" Mr. Banner exclaimed, "Capital idea! Just as my brothers and I used to do on the streams near our estate at Sussex. But I claim you for my partner, Miss Diana, as I am certain none but you will have the ingenuity to fashion the winning vessel."

"You are very bold, sir," Diana snapped open her fan to hide her smile, "Yet if I may exercise the ingenuity you praise, I would say old friends such as ourselves should be divided rather than joined. There are many here with whom I would welcome closer acquaintance. Miss Cork, would you care to join my sister and me? Together I know we can put these lazy men to shame."

"I beg your pardon," the lady replied, turning away with a few waves of her own fan, that did little to shield her sneer, "but I believe I will derive amusement enough in watching. Nor have I anyone here to shame, as you intend."

Diana heaved a playful sigh, "Well then, it seems my plans are thwarted."

"Never fear, my lady," Mr. Banner rose to one knee, the very image of a knight paying homage to his queen, "nothing you plan can be spoiled."

Miss Banner begged Sophia for her assistance to make a boat of their own, and after a few moments' excited chatter, the rest of the party paired up likewise. Diana, arbiter of the affair, permitted them five minutes to construct their boats.

Then, laying her hand in Mr. Banner's, the two walked off towards a nearby linden tree, its flat leaves ideal for their purposes, broad and spade-shaped. Sophia and Miss Banner followed them, the younger girl scouring the ground for fallen leaves, presenting one after the other for Sophia's inspection. She, meanwhile, was marveling at her sister's poise. Mr Banner seemed to dance upon the waving feathers of Diana's fan; he brightened or dimmed in accord with the barest twitch of her lips.

Watching them together was more entertaining than aught else she had seen that day.

But at length, she could no longer put off Miss Banner's enthusiasm, and she turned her attention to a suitable leaf. Turned it, that is, until the sisters found themselves on the far side of the linden tree together.

Sophia took up a handful of leaves and feigned serious study. "You could not have thought Miss Cork interested in your games?"

"Hmm," Diana tossed aside a leaf of her own choosing, "No. Yet it is not politic to alienate her. I understand she and her elder brother are very close, and _he_ stands to inherit the living of their father's estate when he is ordained. Would not a clergyman appeal to you for a husband?"

"So this is all for my benefit? It has nothing to do with the fact that she was sitting beside the Honorable John Ashley? The only man in the party whose attention you have not yet managed to capture?"

A glare was her only answer; Diana did not deign any other. "Mr. Banner!" she cried, "Is this not the very one? See how its edges naturally curl?"

He joined them in an instant. "Indeed. None but you could have spotted such a natural winner. A few alterations—if you would permit me, of course—and we are assured a victory."

"Will you not make the mast, Sophia?" Diana allowed Mr. Banner to take her arm under his, "You have such a find hand for delicate work."

"You flatter me," Sophia retorted, "and you forget I too have a horse in this race. Your fingers will have to muddle on as best they can without me."

Sophia was not sorry to attend Miss Banner, whose artless energy and outpourings of praise refreshed her. Everything Sophia did was clever, or fine, or both. Flattery, she thought, was as good a tonic as a glass of wine.

She sorely needed a tonic. November's weather, uncertain and temperamental, had turned; the morning's frosty edge giving way to bright sun and humidity. Sophia's heavy curls were drooping like willow branches and sweat gathered where the high neck of her dress hugged her throat.

At the expiration of five minutes, the group gathered again on the banks of the lake to see their boats sail. Sophia ceded all control to Miss Banner, who lay their boat onto the water's minuscule lapping waves as a mother might lay her firstborn into its crib. Even Miss Cork succumbed to the excitement, providing a scrap of gauze from her handkerchief to tie on her companion's vessel in a decorative sail. The instant Mr. Ashley took his hands from the boat, the slight weight of the cloth overbalanced and sank it.

"A catastrophe, I declare!" she cried, pressing close to his side, "Can you not salvage it?"

The Honorable John Ashley had no words to spare for gallantry. Ambition fired by the game, he tossed aside the sail without a glance. Miss Cork pouted as it floated downstream, a pale ghost in the current.

Sophia treasured that pout to recount to Diana later. If Mr. Ashley were in her sights, she would venture to assert that Miss Cork would be no obstacle.

Diana gave Mr. Banner the right to begin the race, and in a flurry of cheers, laughter, and applause, the boats set off. The younger members of their party ran along the banks, clapping as they watched Diana's boat crossed the finish line a hairsbreadth ahead of the next, which belonged to the Peel brothers. Mr. Banner, flush with victory, seized his partner's hand and bowed over it, close enough so his lips touched. It was a mark so pointed that even Diana's good-natured smile vanished in an instant.

She withdrew her hand, spoke a cool, short sentence, and turned away.

The race which had so enlivened the party was also its death-knell. The Herrera sisters had to return shortly, as their mother's habits made her dine early, and every other member made his excuses in turn. With bows and promises to meet again, the group parted.

"I know you are tired," Diana murmured as their footman escorted them to their waiting carriage, a maid trailing behind with an armful of rugs, "but do me the favor of smiling and speaking until we are in the carriage?"

"Why?" Sophia smiled as bidden, bearing up under her sister's exhausted weight.

"One never knows whom one may meet. Does not our own mother's marriage testify to that?"

As if summoned, two handsome officers turned onto the path before them. As they approached, Diana blushed, dimpled, and looked away; Sophia need not have glanced back to know they had seen the becoming display.

"Do you intend to follow Mama's example and elope with a merchant trader, then?" she teased, "I thought your ambitions were rather above that. In such a case, you might have stayed home."

"I intend nothing. I only raise the point that we must make the most of our opportunities."

"You are right, of course. A good first impression is our most valuable weapon, considering our other disadvantages."

"What do you see as our disadvantages?"

"You must see them too," Sophia adjusted Diana's weight as her sister's steps faltered, "Surely you have heard the murmurs surrounding our names? Our mother's past? Could you imagine what they would say if they knew of Maria, in addition to all this? And then there is our father."

"Who could know of our father in London?"

"I do not know," Sophia replied, "yet it is known that he is not English. The truth of his trade might come to light."

Diana raised her chin. "Why must you borrow trouble? A father in trade is hardly an insuperable obstacle to a good marriage."

"You are right," Sophia let the subject drop, "Of course. Forgive me. I should leave all scheming in your capable hands."

"'Scheming' is such a low word. Can you not think of it all as I do?"

"How do you think of it, then?"

"It is all a game. London, Spain, Harley Street, Hyde Park. We are all players in it, from Davis there," the footman, "to the Prince himself. You and I came on the board with certain disadvantages, as you say. Yet those may be overcome by a clever strategist."

"Which I am most grateful you are, for your sake," they arrived at the carriage at last. Safely sealed inside, Sophia rubbed her tired eyes with a wilted handkerchief. "Yet I beg you would leave me out of your calculations. If I am to find a husband I respect, it must be on my own terms."

Color returned to Diana's pale cheeks. "You do not trust my taste? When even Lady Worthington herself remarked on it?"

"Your taste is exquisite, but it is not mine. I could no more wear a gown you designed than wed a husband you chose."

"Ah, but the gowns I design are meant to flatter _me_. Do you think I would not take your figure into account while making one for you?"

"You know my figure, but the dimensions of my character are more elusive."

"I am your sister. No one knows your character better than I. And I would wager I could find a man to suit it perfectly. Of course, you would never agree," impish humor danced in her eyes, "it would be too amusing for you, I vow."

Sophia gasped, playacting only in part, "You think me a bore?"

"I think such amusements are not to your refined tastes."

"Then perhaps you do not know me as well as you suppose."

"I believe I do. Will you take the risk?"

"Very well," Sophia could not help a sly smile, "a wager."

"A wager."

The sisters struck hands on the bargain.


	4. IV

**IV**

"Oh, my darlings. No one will outshine you tonight."

Together the sisters paraded before Mrs. Herrera, giggling as their skirts brushed against the coverlet and when Diana's drooping feathers were nearly set aflame when she curtsied beside the bed. Despite the blood they shared, it was only their gentle smiles and graceful bearing that betrayed their relation. That, and their mutual affection; bent entirely upon their mother.

Their mother was right. They were a sight to behold. This being their debut ball into English society, both sisters had decided on white, accented with colors that suited their distinct complexions and coloring.

Sophia's sash and trimmings were of emerald silk, touched with embellishments of exquisite Spanish lace their duenna had labored over every evening for two months. She had sewn it onto the sash herself, marveling at how never a knot was dropped nor stitch missed. Though the richness of the lace needed no ornament, Mrs. Herrera had contributed her pearls, pearls that dangled from her neck and threaded through the midnight mass of her hair.

In contrast, Diana was a dawn-sprite, her pale dress touched with braiding of gold that glowed brightly as the sun, even by shaded candlelight. A band of pink velvet constrained her massed braids; a sash of the same shade trailed behind her as she walked.

"Your first London ball," their mother sighed, fingers plucking at Diana's sash, "I am so sorry I cannot be with you."

"You do not think we shall be safe with Lady Worthington?" Sophia teased her.

"Oh, safe you will be, but a mother has many more things to do for her daughters that a mere chaperon cannot do. There are many families I know...families with sons you might wish to meet. Lady Worthington may gather with her friends and forget you entirely."

"But Mama," Diana interjected, "there will be others there we know. The Lascelles, the Miltons...and the Banners, Coxes, and Wrights, of course. Neither of us shall want for partners, especially since I have the whip-hand over Sophie at last."

"Oh?"

"Di," Sophia turned away, "Mama has no need to hear of our silly wager."

"Nonsense. Everything that affects my daughters affects me. Diana, you say you can make her dance?"

"Indeed. I have her word on it; she will dance with anyone I bring to her, and at the end of the night we will decide whether or not to continue with my scheme."

"Your scheme for what?"

"Matrimony, of course. Sophie insists that I do not know her, and could never find a man to suit her. We both know that if I leave the choice of husband to her alone, it will never be made. But if tonight I can find her a partner she enjoys for a dance, well," her feathers waved merrily, "she can have no objection if I find her a partner of a more permanent nature."

"I promise you I will object," Sophie put in, "You will find I can object to anything."

"Not tonight, if you please! I have your promise. It can hardly be such a trial to you, in any case; you always loved a ball. How many times did you return home in the early morning, Maria supporting you after dancing till the end of the night?"

"She is right, Sophie," Mrs. Herrera added, "There seemed nothing I could do to encourage you to moderation in dancing, certainly not when Maria prodded you along. How wild that girl made you! Perhaps you will take more pleasure in this evening than you anticipate."

"You speak of me as though I were a humorless drudge incapable of finding or creating amusement. What have I said to incline you to believe I am dreading this party?"

"It is only that I have missed your lighthearted spirit ever since we arrived in London," their mother said, "True, England has little to offer in comparison to the vivacity of our parties in Cádiz, but are you not always the one who speaks of making the best of a bad situation?"

"London is not a bad situation. It is only that...I own I have missed home more than I believed possible. Even after so many years planning our life here, it seems that I would almost rather have stayed in Spain."

"We all miss it, of course," Mrs. Herrera's smile fell away into fine wrinkles, "but our lives are here now. Your father has strained himself to make it possible."

"Yes, yes," she swallowed, "forgive me. I do not mean to...tonight, I promise, I shall dance with any man who asks and smile even upon those who do not. After all, if I can keep a pleasant face with Lady Worthington, I should be able to do so to those who are more deserving."

"Brava, Sophie!" Diana cheered her, "Let's be off!"

She swept out the door, sash and feathers floating with her airy steps.

Mrs. Herrera patted her daughter's hand. "Bear with her, Sophie, if only for a night."

* * *

"Upon my word, I fear we are in for a dull evening. No one is here."

Neither Sophia nor Diana had breath to reply. Grand balls enough they had known, but there was an undeniable charm in finding themselves in the finest ballroom on Harley Street, lit with constellations of candles, draped with fragrant boughs of pine and ivy. The roaring fire danced like a hearth god, feasting on logs thick around as a young lady's waist.

"To be sure, I warned Celia it was madness to have a party this early in the season," Lady Worthington sailed into the room, skirts billowing behind in a miasma of purple silk. Guests scattered out of her way as she bore down upon them, "You will have such a poor impression of our society here. There should be four times as many people for a ball to deserve the name. Here are no more than fifty! Well, well. At least I see John Ashley and some other worthy men. I daresay you know most of them already; I cannot recall all their names. Keep up, dears."

"Don't run," Diana murmured, lips not twitching from a polite smile, "She will forget us in a moment."

"I have no intention of running," her ventriloquism was not so skilled, "I see Miss Wright; will I be permitted to speak with my friends this evening, or will you want me on hand when you find a partner you think will suit?"

"Oh, go talk to her. Making a prisoner of you will only make you scowl."

Sedate and proud, the girls walked the length of the room, gathering admiring glances from the men and shrewd appraisals from the women. Word had spread of the Herrera sisters, certainly; those who did not already know them were applying to those who did for information.

Unfortunately, they had not the leisure to make any new acquaintance just then. Lady Worthington hustled them across the room so they could be witnesses as she berated her dear friend on her foolishness in attempting a ball out of season, the more so since she had been told not to.

Mrs. Driscoll, large eyes perpetually half-lidded and overhung besides by a spray of false curls mechanical in their perfection, admitted the full truth of her ladyship's words, only then to say it would have been a pity to deprive the young ones of entertainment and how she could not bear the long evenings without some diversion and after all it would not much matter if no one was here now because a month or two would fill all their drawing rooms uncomfortably close.

She fetched breath and went on, "And here you have brought two lovely ladies to enliven the evening. These must be the...oh dear, I do not know how to say—"

"Herrera, Mrs. Driscoll," Sophia supplied with a curtsy, thoughtfully stripping the Rs of any discernible character.

"Yes, yes. Sophia and Diana Herrera," Lady Worthington snapped her fan at them in lieu of an introduction, "Their mother eloped with a Spaniard, if you please. A _tradesman._ You remember Anne Worthington, my husband's youngest sister? Though you may not have met; she was barely out of the schoolroom when she ran off."

"Goodness!" Mrs. Driscoll's sleepy eyes widened, giving the sisters the uncomfortable impression they were about to leap from her skull, "I do recall something of _that_. Well, indeed. Ladies, it is a pleasure to have you. I do hope you find life in London comfortable?"

Sophia knew she would find far more comfort in never being asked that question again.

"Very much so, I thank you. Everyone is so kind."

"Well, girls, I suppose you can amuse yourselves, can you not?" Lady Worthington dismissed them with a careless hand, "I see a goodly number of young folk about. Celia, can you think of anyone here they should meet?"

"Oh," Mrs. Driscoll seemed taken aback by her friend's manner, but her eyes had closed again and exertion on her guests' behalf seemed beyond her, "I am certain you have met everyone of consequence."

"Thank you for your concern," Sophia curtsied again, biting her lip, "I see many of our friends here."

With a few pleasantries strewn behind, the girls made their escape. A quick glance backwards to ensure they were safe allowed them to dissolve into giggles.

"Sophie, forgive me if I ever undervalued your worth. I can game and play with the best, but humoring sleepy old toads like that is beyond me."

"You might trouble yourself to speak at least one word, next time. However, I am glad I have some utility, even if it is only to free you to be a butterfly. Now, give me leave to flit in the other direction."

"I shall, but remember, I have your pledge. And I think I spy the perfect man for you."

"Who—"

"No! I want it to be a surprise. Do give Rose my best wishes."

The sisters parted; one to be lively and effusive, the other to refresh her sagging spirits with a bit of quiet conversation, spiced with a hint of gossip.

Miss Rose Wright met her with outstretched hands. As the youngest daughter of a prominent family of beauties, Miss Wright suffered under the burden of being the only plain one in the lot. She might not have suffered as the only daughter in a different family, as her features were perfectly good, but, overshadowed by women who had made advantageous match after advantageous match, she had not the courage to bloom in such deep shadows.

As an acquaintance and a friend however, she was invaluable. She and her sisters knew all the stories behind London high society from the past five years at least. Such information was priceless to the Herreras, who had only their faces and fortunes to forge their futures, and Diana had made a point of drawing Miss Wright from her isolation and into the warmth of their sisterly friendship.

Then Diana had moved on, leaving Sophia the work of maintaining that friendship.

It was no great burden. Miss Wright's acerbic commentary on London society was just bitter enough to appeal to Sophia's own resentment of it.

"Miss Herrera. What a pleasure to see you."

"Miss Wright. I am pleased to find a friend."

She laughed. "And I as well. My sister said she would accompany my brother and me tonight, but her son was hurt in a fall earlier and she insisted upon staying with him. Three women employed to oversee his every step at every hour of the day, yet the poor lad tumbled off a garden bench!"

"I hope it is not serious?"

"I am sure it is not. Yet James is her first son, so I cannot blame her feelings, though I wish she were here. My brother is not the most careful of escorts."

"I do not even see him."

"He formed a party to make a raid on the card tables. Apparently a rubber was underway without him, which was intolerable. I doubt we will see him at all tonight, while there is a sixpence yet to be won."

"Well, at least we may keep each other company. Now, tell me...this week we had rather a snub from Miss Cork. Does she have designs on John Ashley?"

"Catherine Cork?" At Sophia's nod, Rose giggled behind her fan, "Oh dear. She has had her eye on him ever since her debut last season. But," another laugh, "please do not think me wicked—have you ever met a man with less to say for himself?"

Sophia was less guarded with her own grin. "I sat opposite him on the same blanket and only managed to get a full sentence from him when the conversation turned to sport. Even then it was only to remark what a bore the city was and that London was no match for the country for pheasant. What woman would fix upon such a man?"

"A woman with his family fortune in mind. They say his elder brother is sickly; he rarely comes into company, and so the rumors spread."

She shook her head. "I would wish no woman to be so mercenary; such behavior tars all the rest of us. Does she not have a fortune of her own?"

"It is dependent on her guardian's whim. He keeps a tight hold on her purse-strings."

Sophia swallowed past a sudden tightness in her own throat. How well she understood how a woman could be driven desperate by a man's arbitrary control!

"Still. It seems a hard way to earn one's freedom."

"You are fortunate to have a liberal father, then. Not all women are so fortunate."

It would be foolish, unbelievable even, to raise any objections to Miss Wright's belief in her father's generosity. Not when costly lace and flawless pearls were her ornaments, nor when her dress was still creased with lines from the dressmaker's box.

"Perhaps," was all she managed.

The buzz in the room had reached its full pitch, its dull chatter enlivened by sprightly laughter and discordant notes as the fiddlers readied themselves. Then, with a breath, they struck up a country tune that sent lightning through the crowd. Pairs—the women tripping light as birds, the men sleek as hunting dogs—took their places on the floor

Rose and Sophia took refuge in a window alcove overlooking the street.  
"I see your sister is not dancing tonight."

"Is she not? She never misses a chance, nor often needs to."

"No, I am mistaken; there she is. And with Captain Mayfair, I vow," Rose shook her head, "I should have thought him a bit solemn for her."

"Oh," Sophia sighed, seeing her sister catch sight of the pair of them and lead her companion across the floor, "I do not think she intends him for herself."


	5. V

**V**

"Miss Herrera, you look quite lovely this evening."

"Thank you, sir," she took his hand as they passed in the dance, "I do hope it is some compensation for my sister's boldness of manner."

"I fear I was the bold one. When I found my friend was acquainted with her, I wasted little time in begging her for an introduction. Our circles have as yet had less connection than I would like. Though I hope this evening will set that to rights."

Sophia was glad the next figure separated them too far for private speech. Her heart gave a happy flutter, feelings of feminine pride over-leaping caution. Captain Mayfair was a man of sense, then, in addition to being one of bearing and looks. It had been months since Sophia felt the pleasure of being flattered by such a man.

She had several other sensations to balance besides pride, however, and her efforts to do so must have been clear on her face.

"I hope I have not offended you."

"By no means, Captain. I admire your forthrightness," she smiled, "And taste, as well."

He answered her smile with one of his own, white teeth strong against weather-browned skin. "You are newly arrived from Spain, are you not? I had the good fortune to be stationed off Lisbon on my first assignment, as a raw midshipman. Unfortunately, I was never able to visit your country. You must miss the Mediterranean weather."

"Yes," she admitted, "London is a good deal chillier. Every time someone asks me whether I find London comfortable, I have to repress a shiver," they circled another pair and came together again, "And does the sun never shine here?"

"A day without a feather-bed of clouds is rare indeed. Yet such mild weather makes the summers more bearable, as I hope you will stay to find?"

His manner was undoubtedly good, rendering the commonplace subject they discussed something fresh and interesting. Dreaded though Diana's threats to find her a partner had been, she had to admit that this first offering was more than acceptable. It was a shame he had never been to Spain; she would have liked to discover his impressions of her home.

Her next smile deepened, showing her dimples to advantage. "In the summer I believe we will remove to my aunt's estate in Surrey. I own I look forward to that more than the season; I love being outdoors. My sister and I frequently rode along the coast to sketch."

"I daresay your seat is better than mine. As a sailor, I must perforce enjoy being out-of-doors; however, I have less experience with horses than I would like. Nor do I enjoy the activity in London. Riding city streets and being gawked at by one and all is no substitute for open air and the liberty of nature."

"Have you not had enough of loneliness after your years at sea?"

"Ah, but it steals into one's blood. Facing the crowds of town is more terrible to me than facing an enemy frigate under full sail. While neither is likely to bring pleasure, at least the latter holds opportunity."

The first dance ended in a clamor of applause. Sophia rose from her curtsy to spy her sister eyeing the pair of them from further down the set. Diana caught her gaze with a grin and a raised eyebrow, ignoring her own partner, a rather insistent Mr. Cox. Sophia shook her head, resisting a childish urge to stick out her tongue. If only they _were_ children again and she could box that smug, satisfied smirk right off Diana's lips!

But brawling being generally frowned upon in a ballroom, Sophia had no recourse but to turn again to the dance with Captain Mayfair.

"Where do you find your peace then, if not in London?"

"My elder brother has the family seat, up north near Newcastle. It is fine, wild country."

"That is some distance from London, indeed!"

"My sister-in-law believes so. She insists upon coming south early, as the winter closes in rather sharp at this time of year."

"And how long will you stay with them?"

"As long as this peace lasts, or until a plan of mine comes to fruition," he shrugged, "I am at their disposal until I bestir myself and purchase an estate of my own."

"Would not the purchase of your own home provide the best guarantee of independence and freedom?"

He admitted it with a nod. "You are right of course, yet I find the process of inspecting houses, hiring lawyers, and so on to be an unbearable process. On my ship I am a man of action; on land, I turn into the most lazy layabout you ever saw."

She laughed. "You exaggerate, surely."

"On my honor. Did you not hear me say I had not even made an effort to secure an introduction to you before one presented itself to me?"

Hmm. Perhaps he was less acceptable than Sophia once thought. Could a man so willing to confess his own weaknesses be willing to fight them? Though, his sheepish smile might be all affectation. Which in itself might be a warning.

Fortunately, the dance ended then, leaving Sophia with no time either to examine or betray her damaged pride in the crush of couples leaving the floor and forming the next set. Captain Mayfair guided her expertly through the morass, arm solid and sure around hers.

"If I have not done away with my own reputation, may I have the pleasure of another dance sometime during the course of the evening?"

He really _did_ have a charming smile. Moreover, Sophia had promised to try, and what trial was over after a single encounter? Surely it would do her no harm to be flattered by a man of consequence, even if his character was not precisely what she wished.

"I should be honored, sir," she returned the pressure of his strong hand.

"Excellent," he bowed again, to Sophia and Miss Wright, who had sidled up to Sophia's elbow, "Good evening, ladies."

With a precise turn, he walked off.

"Captain Mayfair, oh my," Rose's eyes gleamed over the edge of her fan, "Your sister has taste. What a blessing a military figure is!"

Sophia laughed, though a similar thought had wormed into her own treacherous thoughts. "Come along or we will be overrun," they found their alcove again and took up their conversation.

Miss Wright had fresh news to tell. "Did you see Mary Milton's face as you took the floor? She was of the party when Captain Mayfair begged your sister for an introduction, so Miss Banner told me; when he led you out I thought she would break her fan in half!"

"I saw nothing of that," Sophia rejoined, fanning her flushed face and reaching for an air of exasperation to cover her fluster, "I was rather occupied in speaking to the man."

"I cannot blame her; I took a few turns with the Captain myself last season. He is a divine dancer. And several years back—in '06, I believe—when he was only a Commander, my sister thought she was paying court to her. He left for the East Indies soon after, so nothing came of it. Eliza took it hard."

"I can see why. There is an honesty in his address that is all too rare. But he seems as lackadaisical in his choice of bride as he is in all else. One wonders that a man can have two such separate characters!"

"Perhaps the one explains the other. At sea, a captain must be responsible for so much; on land the temptation to abandon responsibility must be great," Rose fixed her friend with a curious stare, "Nor is he so old that he must rush into marriage. And do you mean to tell me that an understandable flaw makes him unsuitable to dance with?"

"By no means," Sophia tried to laugh off her own irrationality, "But it may make him unsuitable for other things."

"My dear Miss Herrera, you think too far ahead. A ballroom is no place for thoughts of marriage."

"Is that quite true, I wonder?" she murmured. Then, with a jerk of her chin, she cried, "Still, it is not _I_ who thinks of marriage! What need have _I_ to think of matrimony, beyond what my family wishes? And who brought the man to me?"

A headache was threatening to pinch her brow, and _that_ she refused to endure. "Never mind," she said, squeezing Rose's hand and ignoring her bemused gaze, "I think I would like some punch; will you join me?"

"I would," Rose said, nodding over Sophia's shoulder, "but I do not think you have the leisure for it."

Sophia turned.

Diana, fan working hard against her tumbling curls, was leading yet another man their way.

Sophia sighed.

* * *

Seated at dinner with a gluttonous Lady Worthington on one side and a taciturn John Ashley on the other, Sophia took far greater interest in the fish and Madeira than either had the right to command. Course after course paraded across the table, each one dressed and finished as neatly as the ladies and gentlemen nibbling at them.

Sophia relished the freedom permitted her by two such neighbors. Shielded by people of barely more animation than the walls that enclosed them, she was at liberty to run over the parade of Mayfairs, Miltons, Harrows, Greenes, and...oh, who else had she danced with? Thompson, that was the last. Each one refined, elegant, polite, and polished; but aside from Captain Mayfair, each had been completely indistinguishable from the other.

Almost indistinguishable. Mr. Henry Greene's towering collar was not something she would soon forget. Even from across the table, she could still recognize him by the distinctly purple tinge of his cheeks, throttled by that ridiculous collar.

She could hear Diana clucking already. How unfair of her to judge so many so quickly! How would she find a single _friend_ in London, let alone a husband, if she persisted like this?

Yet Sophia knew in her heart she was right. The very day she had met—

No. She could not think of him here. It would be the ruin of her composure. Nor would thoughts of him bring her any comfort. He was as far distant from her as Cádiz, separated not merely by miles and mountains but by their incompatibility. She knew this to her marrow, just as she knew that they were _not_ incompatible and never had been, not if the world were ruled by laws of justice and sanity.

But it was not. That she could sit beside a man with not an original thought in his brain or the skill to express one if he did—moreover, to have a match with him thought _desirable_ —was proof. Poets might speak of matrimony as a pairing of kindred souls, but it was only a business contract bound by blood and money.

Had she not known as much when she forced Domingo to hide their affection as though it were some shameful secret? She had rationalized that choice, convinced herself that her father would never permit Domingo to remain his foreman if he declared himself her lover, but she could claim no moral high ground from that decision.

She had bent to unjust laws and ratified them by compliance.

What right had she to sneer at Captain Mayfair's open admission of his weaknesses when she would not even admit her own to herself?

By the time the trays of delicate sugar cages, candied fruit, and sweet sherry were set before the crowd, Sophia had shamed herself so much that she wanted to crawl under the table. The many glasses of wine she had drunk over the course of the meal were no help; there was a hot dizziness behind her eyes that threatened to spill over in tears.

But her pride was good for one thing. It kept her from making a fool of herself.

With iron discipline, she forced a smile and turned to Lady Worthington, chattering about the quality of the dessert and comparing it to the many heavier treats to be found on the streets of Cádiz. Faced with such a determined talker, her ladyship had no choice but to reply, providing Sophia with just the trial she needed to control her unruly feelings.

After a further half-hour of purgatory, dinner ended and four or five eager couple returned to their business in the ballroom. The rest of the party lounged about or headed for the card tables; it was in this lull that the sisters found each other.

"Well?"

"You did admirably," Sophia said, brittle but gracious. "I fear I failed to hold up my end of our bargain."

"You mean you did not like them? But I was so sure about one or two!"

"Only two? I had eight partners at least," at her sister's guilty expression, she shook her head in wonderment, "You mean to tell me you gave me partners you knew I would not care for?"

"Well, one can only do so much in such a limited crowd. But what of Captain Mayfair? He ambushed me the moment he heard my name. Frederick Evans may never forgive him for having stolen the dance that should have been his."

"He could not have been too angry," Sophia silently blessed her sister for providing the precise mixture of amusement and exasperation necessary to jog her from her stifling fog of shame, "Mr. Evans is the one eligible gentleman I did _not_ dance with, apparently. But I saw him stand up with you."

"I was only soothing his broken heart, I assure you. Besides, Miss Cork got her claws in him when she could not prevail on Mr. Ashley to ask her to dance a second time. And I knew you would find his malleability appealing. But you distract me. What of Captain Mayfair?"

Sophia took her bleeding heart between both hands and crushed it until it could not expand. Pale but clear-eyed, calm as a corpse, she was able to reply:

"He was charming. I should not be sorry to meet him again."

* * *


	6. VI

**VI**

Later that evening, or perhaps it should better be called early the next morning, the two sisters arrived footsore and fevered to their own rented house on Lovett Street. Only their maids awaited them, presenting each girl as she arrived with dressing-gown, hairbrush, tea, and a tray of dainty sandwiches. They were each too fatigued to do more than wish each other a hoarse 'good-night' before dragging themselves upstairs to bed.

Sitting alone in her room, sweat washed away and stifling satin shed, cradling a hot cup of tea in her limp hands, Sophia felt agitation drain from her as bloodletting drains one of fever. In its burning wake, she felt chilled and uncertain.

The ball, the ball. Tomorrow she would be called to account by both sister and mother, and she had better know what to say for herself.

It had passed agreeably, for the most part. That much she could say in all truth. Any unpleasantness was her fault, not the fault of the assembly. Yet Diana would chastise her for such reticence, while her mother might see the whelming swell of melancholia that had seized her before and still caught her in its freezing current. Dragged from the shores of equanimity by its insistent pull, Sophia readied herself for the tiresome task of struggling to safety.

At first, it seemed impossible. Out there in the ocean of memories were feelings and people she loved too deeply to sever herself from, while only a barren shore waited in welcome if she succeeded in gaining it. Moreover, in some cases, cutting the lines that connected them was not even possible. After all, she had broken Domingo's heart during their last, slow promenade along the shore, yet all Maria's letters spoke of him. His desperation, his pain...his love that she had not managed to extinguish.

And Maria. Her sister in all things but the blood they only half-shared. She would become monstrous indeed if she ground that passionate affection beneath her boot in the vain pursuit of acclimatizing to a country in which she belonged as little as the distant countries that composed its sprawling empire.

No. It was impossible. Unnatural. She would not do it.

If the world were just, or if Sophia were reckless as the heroines of so many novels, she would wrap up her jewelry, trade it for sterling, and barter her way alone across the continent, arriving in Cádiz to fling herself upon Domingo's shoulders. They would marry secretly, knowing perfect fulfillment in each others' arms.

It was a beguiling fantasy, so bewitching that Sophia allowed herself a few minutes to dwell on it; the details, the sensations. She could just see Domingo's face...in his joy, the whole world was transfigured.

But Sophia was not a heroine, nor was her heart a heroine's heart. It did not only heed the call of passion. Other calls demanded her care. She was a daughter, a sister; she could not spite half her family for selfish desire; not when that desire would destroy more than one life.

It would even destroy the lives she wished to improve. How would Domingo find employment after her father threw him from their warehouses and gave him a filthy character among the other tradesmen in the town? How would they live after her father stripped away Sophia's inheritance—for such he would do to a disloyal daughter, one so heartless as to throw off decades of his ambitions—and after her fine clothes and jewels had all been traded for cash?

It was all equally impossible.

Her circumstances were ruthlessly designed to encourage one possible outcome. But though marriage to an Englishman offered her only option for a safe, comfortable life, she refused to do it. Her father might threaten and bluster, her mother might fret and wheedle, but _this_ was the line she would not cross.

She resolved thus not for Domingo's sake, for she prayed he would find a worthy woman to ease his heart, but for her own. Matrimony should be an affair of pure love; she had none to give. Entering into such a sacred contract would be to perjure herself before God.

How Sophia wished for a heroine's heart! She could feel no high, holy resolution descend upon her as she considered her blasted future. How could she be resigned to growing old, unmarried, taken back to Spain a failure to live on sufferance as her parents' caretaker, always viewed with pity and scorn? Perhaps she might find comfort in charitable work; perhaps Diana might marry a man who would not mind hosting her spinster sister.

It was a bleak vision, but Sophia unrolled it like a tapestry and forced herself to stare at the repetitive motifs of loneliness and societal scorn until the hot sting of shame faded. There was nothing scornful in such a life of utility; nor anything to fear from loneliness. There would be a pang, one sharp enough to rend her in half, when Domingo married again, but Sophia knew herself. She would heal.

Yes, she would heal and life would continue in its slow, undisturbed current; she might even find calm happiness in it.

Though it might be easier if she could unburden some of her heart, share her resolution with someone. Does not a martyr take comfort in knowing her sacrifices admired by the masses? Sophia did not wish for masses; she only wished for one dependable friend.

Her mother was out of the question. Sympathetic as she was, even she could not bear hearing that her eldest daughter intended to live a life voluntarily stunted. And she would immediately tell Mr. Herrera of Sophia's plans, and _that_ would be disastrous.

Mrs. Herrera might consider his quick temper a thing of the past, but Sophia knew better.

No; as far as her mother was concerned, Sophia must convince her that she was at least attempting to find a husband.

Perhaps Diana, then? There she paused. Surely she could not continue her life in London this way, being flung into the path of any eligible man that struck her sister's fancy. Having her sister as an ally would shift half the burden of her deception.

She hesitated. It was not a communication to be made lightly; once made, the words would have wings and could not be snatched back. A wrong syllable at the wrong time would cause all the devastation and heartbreak she longed to avoid.

Teacup empty, heart and hands cold, she rose slowly. The clank as she replaced the saucer on her inlaid table made her jump. Always cold, she was always cold. No matter how she shivered or how many blankets the maids piled on her bed, she shuddered through half the night.

Even the _thought_ of another such evening was intolerable. This one night she would not be sensible and force herself beneath the covers; if she were tired in the morning, the ball could be her scapegoat.

The hearth was a beacon of warmth. Taking a quilt from her bed, she curled up in its heavy folds, rolling herself before the fire like a caterpillar waiting to hatch.

Tomorrow was too soon to tell Diana her intentions. Too soon to confess her secret.

Tomorrow was a day she could write to Maria. Perhaps she would not send the letter, but she could write it.

And perhaps, though she could not embark on her new journey at sunrise, Sophia resolved to take a further step away from the past. There was a weakness that weighed heavily on her heart; she must excise it.

Tomorrow she would take all Domingo's letters and feed them to the fire that panted for them even now.

* * *

"Oh, my dears. You look so pale. Did you not sleep well after the party?"

"No," Diana sighed into her tea, "my feet were restless all night, longing for another dance. It was a divine ball, Mama, I wish you had been there. Even Sophia danced nearly every dance. She even returned to the floor after supper, if you please! With a very worthy gentleman, too."

"Who, my darling?"

It was easy to speak of the facts, so Sophia gave them. "Captain Mayfair. I liked him; he seems a very honest gentleman. I was very entertained by his stories of his various engagements in the East Indies. He has good information on a variety of subjects."

"What Miss Prim here does not mention is that he is quite handsome in the bargain. No, do not object, Sophie. I saw your face when I introduced you. You know how she freezes for a moment, Mama, when she sees a handsome man? With those wide eyes like a stunned cat?"

Sophia cried out at the comparison, but their mother only laughed.

"I am glad you had such a convivial partner. Were there any other worthies I should know of? Anyone I should be prepared to meet when he cannot repress his feelings and calls this very morning?"

"None among my new acquaintance. But I saw Diana here dance thrice with a dandy we all know well," at Diana's blush, she grinned, "A certain Mr. Cox? He has been attempting to gain her attention for days, and last night I believe he succeeded."

"Mr. Cox is no dandy," was the only objection Diana raised, "and the third dance was only because of a bet he won at Casino."

"I never heard of dances as being proper bets in Casino."

"They are not," Sophia laughed, "But Mr. Cox had solicited the pleasure of another dance with no success. At which point he begged her to play for it instead. I daresay that bit of romantic daring was too appealing to resist."

"I see. What would you have won had he lost?"

Diana buried her nose in her teacup; her words were hollow and muffled. "He had a lovely pocket-watch."

Mrs. Herrera laughed until she lost breath and had to cough for it.

"I do hope that is not serious, Mama," Sophia said, refilling her teacup.

"By no means. It is only the damp air. The doctor assures me my lungs will soon strengthen to the cold and I shall be as well as I was before. I intend to be in the pink of health for your next ball. Now, tell me," her voice was smooth as before, "what are your plans for today?"

"There are several shops I mean to visit," Diana began, "I am not satisfied with the trimming on my pelisse; besides, Miss Milton offered us a place in her barouche for the outing. She knows a tailor who does fine bead work and longs to show us. Though after Sophia's triumph with Captain Mayfair last night, I doubt she will have the same goodwill towards us as before!"

"You take strange pleasure at the thought of my alienating our few London friends. But she has no cause to be angry; he danced with her as well, you know."

"Yes, but he danced with you _first_. And last."

"Only because I could put him off no longer. I can see why he is such a capable leader of men; he has the tenacity. But I would rather not have danced with anyone twice."

"Why, my dear?"

The truth almost leaped off her tongue; she trapped it behind her teeth at the last instant.

"Because...because there are so many men in London. The season has just begun; how will it look if people hear that Miss Herrera already has a marked preference for one above others?"

"Do you hear that, Mama?" Diana gasped, laying down her teacup with a clatter, "That is the sound of an amateur making her first brilliant play."

Mrs. Herrera patted her daughter's hand. "The first of many, I trust."

Sophia allowed the adulation but would not have complained if the floor chose that very instant to crack open and swallow her whole.

* * *


	7. VII

**VII**

_Cari_ _ñ_ _a Sophia,_

_I have read your letter. Words fail me; not only because Papi insists I write and speak only English. Of course I will not speak. Your heart is sacred as my own. Your secrets will have no other home but in me._

_So what can I say but that my heart bleeds for yours. I had no idea that D's love was anything other than his own passion, finding no echo from you but one he wished to hear. To think I laughed at him, believing you had never known love! To think I must have hurt you, writing of his constant attempts to hear your news! That you could have kept such a secret hurts me, but...no. In truth, I am not angry with you. I am angry with_ him _. His ambitions have reigned over us all for too long. D is a good man. You are the perfect woman. Papi has no right to let his pride interfere._

_Your letter arrived in the morning mail and made me too upset to finish my morning cup of chocolate; cook was angry at the waste. Papi was furious when I tried to leave the table; I feared he would take the letter from me, but all is well. He ignores me over his own letters, his ledgers, or the paper, yet I am not permitted a moment's privacy to consult any correspondence of my own. To stay was too dangerous. I felt your agony like_ la crucifixión. Perdóname _. I have no the patience of Christ. I could have killed him then!_

_But do not fear for me. By dinner I could smile on him sweet as I ever do. He knows nothing, nor will he._

_My dear sister, will you not come home? You say yourself you cannot marry. What else are you in England for? I am poor, living in this house in your absence only by Papi's grace—what little of it there is—but you are not. I do not fear hard work. We could leave C_ _á_ _diz; you could be a fine lady in Madrid, and I would be your maid. Do not lock yourself away and stifle your soul._

_You say you wish D marries soon. Yet every day he finds me, seeking news of you, telling news of himself. Distance has not made him forget. It has not made_ you _forget! I wish...but no. I am too hot to write, my words stumble. Yet you begged for my speedy reply. You must forgive me if the reply is scattered as my thoughts._

_Shall I tell you what he says? There is much passion, much poetry. But you will not have that. At least, I think not. You laughed at Diana's preference for poetry and novels. But D is so intemperate. How could he have won you by reason and logic? You must have a romantic soul kept from all. Even I only saw glimpses of it._

_Ay, I cannot write. I must. You will have it._

_You would try to make him forget. Yet there is one thing he said, hushed like a guilty child._

_He says: he would be safe. If he were to marry you, you would both be safe. He says he swears it._

_The way he spoke, it was as if you understood. Do you?_

_I know your resolve. I do not wish to give you hope if you will not have it. Only tell me what to do._

_Know as always, my love in you._

Sophia folded the letter and pressed it to her lips, relieved tears bathing her dry, sleepless eyes. The paper and its plain wax seal were fragile gags, but effective. The walls were thing. It was early. Diana was dressing in the next room; their mother was resting after breakfast. Soon her maid's discreet tap would come. She must find her composure.

The mails were slow arriving from Spain. For over a fortnight, Sophia had lived in a state of delicate agony, as though each step she took was on the edge of a flaying knife. The instant her confessional letter left her hands, her convictions about its reception varied wildly, on the merest whim. She had been a fool to risk her confidence; but Maria would never betray her; perhaps their father would intercept the letter; it might fall into _Domingo's_ hands.

Her relief at the letter's actual contents was indescribable. The instant the letter arrived she had feigned a headache as an excuse to steal away and read it; the sudden pallor of her drawn face made an all-too-natural excuse. Indeed, she had almost been discovered, as Mrs. Herrera, alarmed at her daughter's sudden fit, sent the maid to inquire after her.

Yet all was well. After fourteen days' purgatory in the windswept, restless ring of the lustful, all was finally well.

Sophia read of Maria's fury with a smile and a fond shake of the head. Her sister's rages she recalled quite well; so too did she remember Maria's abiding love. By neither word nor action would she betray Sophia's faith. Her confidences were secure; her great trial of secrecy was past.

Maria's offer, moreover, to return to Spain and flee their father's house to a refuge in Madrid, settling together as spinster sisters, was a pleasant thought. Impractical, impossible, as had been all her other thoughts of returning to Spain, but pleasant. In her mind's eye, she saw what sort of simple house they might keep; morning coffee in a sunlit room, long strolls through museums, evenings spent arm-in-arm watching dancers in the public square.

It was as selfish a thought as eloping with Domingo. In the end, she put it away with the rest of her dreams; in the same small, plain box. On dismal days she might shake them out and dwell in them for a time, but they must be locked away just as securely afterwards.

It was in that very same box that she sealed the hope Domingo's promise had brought. Maria implied she understood his hint; she did not. It seemed of a piece with the rest of his promises; charming but too high-flown. There was no magic talisman by which Domingo might guarantee their safety from her father's wrath.

No. She must take comfort in Maria's love, and leave all the rest where it had been. She would run mad, otherwise.

The maid tapped.

"A moment, please," she brushed away what remained of her tears. In the glass, her eyes were swollen and bloodshot, raw against the uneven color of her cheeks. Her look burned glassy and feverish.

The letter she hastily tied with the rest and put away.

"Come in."

"Oh, miss. Mistress said you were poorly and may I say you don't look half so well. May I bring you a cup of tea and tell Miss Diana you're to stay abed?"

It was tempting. So tempting Sophia knew she would be a fool to indulge the urge.

"No. It is only a headache; after a half-hour's rest I shall be well. We are at home this morning and have tea with the Corks in the afternoon. It would be shameful if I missed them. My blue morning gown, if you please."

* * *

"I _am_ glad you are coming with me."

Diana, who usually preferred to sit on opposite seats in the carriage, so her dress might not be creased, had instead nestled beside her elder sister like an affectionate cat.

"Why? Is this not your day of triumph? Though Catherine Cork's heart is as cold as ever towards us, you managed to wheedle us an invitation to tea. I do wonder how you achieved such a feat of social engineering."

"Well, I shall tell you, but that is _not_ why I am glad you are coming. The way you behaved this morning, I thought you were seriously ill. But whatever Maria had to tell you has obviously done you good. You even look cheerful."

"Nonsense," she scoffed, knowing full well Diana was right, "I am always a creature of exquisite beauty, devoid of internal turmoil. Now," she grinned as Diana laughed, "tell me how you managed this coup of the Corks."

"You were there when it happened. Though I do not wonder if you took no notice of it at the time. For the past week you have been so distracted I wonder you have not walked into a door or struck up conversation with a statue. Captain Mayfair himself remarked on it; said you seemed adrift."

"A fine maritime pun," Sophia shook her head, "though I suppose it has a ring of truth to it. I beg your pardon. However, I am sure you will find it no hardship to tell the story again?"

"Only because I am amazed anew by my own skill. You recall that Miss Cork has a younger sister? Jane?" at her sister's nod, she went on, "Well, Miss Jane Cork is just about to begin her second season, after what I understand was a ruinous first one. Rumors abound, and it is difficult to tell which parts are truth and which fiction, but they all tend towards the fact that she was caught at the threshold of an elopement with the curate of her family's parish. Though there was love between them, there was no money on his side and too much pride on hers.

"It was all hushed up, but the odor of scandal persists. The poor girl is much depressed by it; her family keeps her close."

"I should not wonder, poor thing," Sophia shifted uneasily, Miss Cork's story touched too closely on her own, "But was she not at that luncheon...oh, Wednesday last? At the Phillipses?"

"She was. And the poor thing needed a friend. A sisterly figure, if you will. And being a lofty two years her senior, I was able to both sympathize and advise. I believe I was the first warm-blooded person to speak to her."

"Her older sister certainly has ice in her veins," Sophia agreed, "And obviously, Miss Jane was so grateful that she extended an invitation to you without consulting her sister first. Di, did you not stop to consider that using the girl like that would do her more harm than good?"

"Yes, but you did not speak to her," what guilt lingered in Diana's eyes soon evaporated in a flash of anger, "She is allowed to go _nowhere_ ; she was only at the Phillipses because they are cousins once-removed, or something like that. Her parents are an inch away from brokering a marriage in her name with some elderly relative already widowed! An eighteen-year-old girl, to be given to a man with three children of his own, and rheumatism besides!"

"That sounds a trifle dramatic."

"Perhaps because it would not be out of place in a Richardson novel. But I care not how it _sounds_ ;I am determined to help the girl if I can."

"And if you cannot?"

"Then I will settle for stealing every single one of Catherine Cork's prospects to spite her ugly nose," Diana's voice was hard as iron and just as cold.

"Why Catherine? Surely her parents have more to do with Jane's marriage prospects than her sister."  
"Because Catherine was the one who revealed the elopement. She not only destroyed her sister's reputation, but ruined her fiance's life as well. The rector he served dismissed him, leaving him with no prospects or character."

Sophia winced. The poor lovers. Poverty and shame were no fit balms to soothe a broken heart. She could only imagine the agony each day must bring them.

Diana was not done.

"A woman who could do such things to her sister merely to preserve her own pride deserves a heaping portion of shame. And if her parents will not give it to her, I shall."

Far from flushed and theatrical, Diana delivered this pronouncement with a set chin and firm lips, a passionless judge passing sentence. Her eyes shone clear and cold, as though the cruelty the Corks had shown Jane had frozen all the charity that usually ran so warm in Diana's heart.

For her own part, Sophia regarded her sister with eyes suddenly unclouded. She had never thought her sister very principled; in many circumstances, she was cheerfully amoral. She had never possessed Sophia's delicate sensibilities, at least, by Sophia's own estimation. But was that just?

Certainly her intention to spite Catherine Cork might doubtless be thought vicious and unfeminine.

Yet Sophia could not do so.

Revenge was not a woman's portion; by rights, it was only God's. But Diana had discovered an injustice and had set herself to rectify it, using the only tools at her disposal. Sophia should not condone this resolution, but she did.

She was powerfully moved. Moved so that her lips parted of their own accord.

"Will you need my assistance?"

As Sophia had just then seen her sister through clear eyes, so did Diana regard Sophia. A beat of solemn silence passed between them, as though their souls had touched across the abyss at last, touched to recognize the ties they shared beyond those of mere blood.

"I would welcome an ally."

Ally. Was that not the very word Sophia had considered, then refused, to offer her sister? A wave of shame flushed her cheeks.

"What would you have me do?"

The rest of the journey was spent laying plans as complicated as any which finally undid the British forces in the Colonies. Generals they were not, resources they had none, yet Sophia defied any man who would tell her that the pounding surge that beat in her blood was not martial as any rebel's.

"You entrust me with catching Mr. Ludlow's attention?"

"It is part of my plan. I must devote myself to Jane, at least until the gentlemen arrive. Yet he is the new pheasant Miss Cork intends to bring down, if she can. After her failure with Mr. Ashley, she is desperate for a new prospect. Let us deny her."

"You have great faith in my charms if you believe I can captivate a baronet's son."

"You are three times as pretty as Miss Cork and have far more pleasant conversation to offer. If you would just set yourself the task of catching a man, he would be caught," Diana grinned, "I would do it myself, but you do not have Jane's trust. Moreover, I am only asking you to catch his attention for an afternoon. He must prefer your company to any other woman's. Can you do it?"

Sophia would have liked to feel herself above her sister's flattery, but what woman can resist such a glowing estimation of her charms?

"I can."

"Good. I want Miss Cork to feel our claws. I want her to know she has an enemy, and that her sister has a friend. And," she added with a twinkle, "should you catch a baronet's son in the process, more for us, I say."

* * *


	8. VIII

**VIII**

It had been a long while since Sophia had attempted to seduce a man, if indeed she had ever seriously set herself the challenge at all. Still, as with all well-brought-up English girls, her education in this matter had been complete. Mrs. Herrera had tutored her well in all the mechanics of captivation. Theoretically, she had the skills needed to create—if not mutual affection—then at the very least mutual admiration.

The sisters were ushered into the smaller of the Corks' two drawing rooms, where a small set of London's present fashionable young people was gathered. The Corks prided themselves on an exclusivity which their station could not quite realize, but they made a good play for it. The drawing room was fitted up with everything elegant and charming, including a shining pianoforte and a dignified harp.

As the butler announced their names, the gentlemen rose and the ladies smiled. As she curtsied, Sophia spied the eldest Miss Cork shoot her younger sister a darting glare tipped in poison; Jane Cork looked thoroughly defeated, hunched in a chair by the window.

But her honest face brightened pathetically at the sight of Diana; the sweet simplicity of it went straight through Sophia's heart.

Before dividing into the fray, the sisters shared a final look, one Sophia answered with an imperceptible nod. Her resolution was steel; her faith in Diana's judgment absolute. They would punish this unfeeling woman, and take revenge on behalf of a powerless child.

On her own, Sophia considered how best to begin. All avenues to her target seemed blocked. Miss Cork was the center of attention, playing the wandering fortuneteller with tattered cards, appealing to the vanities of her chattering guests. Though the women applied most eagerly for her skills, many of the men were looking on with interest, teasing the girls as they laughed. Mr. Thomas Ludlow was among these.

The object of Miss Cork's premonitions was, of course, flirtation; in a party of a dozen or so thoughtless, lovely creatures, it was a subject that could not fail to enthrall.

"No, no," Miss Cork waved off the latest petitioner for her skills, "I have had enough of ladies. I weary of fortunes and matrimony. I long to predict something of significance. Mr. Ludlow," her smile was woven to ensnare, "do not you have a horse racing soon? Shall I not see what I can make of his chances?"

"No, I thank you. A man's fate is not to be in the myriad interpretations scrawled on flimsy cards, however charming the interpreter of those cards might be. Whatever you find there will not sway my intentions," a neat bow punctuated these remarks.

A solid answer, Sophia thought, if a tad pompous in delivery. Evidently he meant what he said; he was on the point of turning away when Miss Cork, wilted by his dismissal, made one last attempt.

"Perhaps if you will not be swayed in great matters, I could instead amuse you with trifles?"

"I am sure our definition of 'trifles' would vary."

"What say you to love, then?"  
Gasps and titters flooded the room. Mr. Ludlow smirked.

"Oh Catherine, _really_?" this from Miss Cork's bosom friend, Miss Benson. "Love, a trifle?"

Miss Cork, carried away by her own daring and drunk on the pleasure of holding Mr. Ludlow caught in her net, tossed her elegant curls and replied, "I am sure I do not understand your shock, dear Ella. Love is a word so frequently bandied about by our poets and novelists, described in such florid terms...a person of sense should be able to separate truth from such wild fancies. Do you not agree, Mr. Ludlow?"

The entire room held its breath.

"I do not deny that love as described by our poets likely does not exist. But something nonexistent precludes its simultaneous existence as a trifle. Love is nothing."

Pompous then, and unbearably so, Sophia concluded. There was nothing in his sneering declaration that told Sophia he was defending a private pain. His grin rather implied that he spoke out of affectation, a desire to appear coldly logical in the manner of other dandies, while insulting the emotional sensibilities of lesser mortals. Sophia did not care what his motivation was. Her task became that much easier now that she need care nothing for the feelings of anyone involved.

Thwarted in her ambition, Miss Cork had no choice but to hide her disappointment by directing her rather snappish courtesies to the other guests. Fortunately, no one noticed her increasing ill-temper. Their clash had struck sparks that lit fires of hot debate all over the room, yet neither she nor Mr. Ludlow would add a word for or against their earlier positions. Mr. Ludlow indeed retreated from further inquiries altogether.

Sophia now set herself to the task of coming accidentally to his notice. A proud man he was, playing at intellectualism. He would want to bolster that image. How better to do so than by explaining his thoughts to a woman?

There was little in the drawing room to suit his character. The usual albums of watercolors were lying on attractive inlaid tables, surrounded by samples of fine embroidery, set off by elegant arrangements of flowers. All, no doubt, the handiwork of the Cork girls.

A man like Mr. Ludlow would scorn such things. What is the work of the hand to the work of the mind?

Sophia began a slow circuit of the room. The view was a possibility; the Corks lived on a stylish street; Mr. Ludlow likely enjoyed looking down on others. Yet Sophia spotted something still better, drifting towards a small table placed between two windows. It held the room's only assembly of books; a well-bound edition of English philosophy. Try as she might, she could not discern a single crack on any of their spines.

But they were perfect for her means.

Mrs. Herrera had taught her eldest daughter well. She was a mistress of the unstudied air, the attitude of unconscious grace. As she bent her long neck to examine the volumes, she shook her head so one of her long curls fell loose and graced her cheek. The sleek hair curled like a raven's wing, as an emerald glint from her earrings served for an eye.

"If you wish to begin a study in philosophy, I advise you not to start in England."

Oh! Shock! Sophia gave a little start; how _had_ he divined her secret wish?

"I fear I know little of the subject, though I have always admired those who comprehend it. Where do you suggest I begin?"

Though Mr. Ludlow's figure was upright and arrogant, he stood but a few inches above Sophia's knotted hair. Yet as she glanced up at him through lowered lashes, Sophia could tell he felt infinitely higher. In his eyes, she was beneath him in far more significant senses than height.

"Well," he began, speaking slowly so she might follow him, "the Greeks were the first to attempt to make sense of the world around them and the position of man within it; that was thousands of years before the Normans ever set foot on our soil. But the Romans perfected not just philosophy, but the _purpose_ of philosophy. What do you imagine that is?"

"Surely, a system to teach us to act morally?"

"In a way," he smiled, pleased at his skill in teaching his student, "Philosophy is not just an individual concern; it teaches the individual to understand mankind, in order to shape our nations into perfect states."

He fetched breath and went on.

"The Romans created the perfect state. _Theirs_ is the philosophy we must study above all others if we wish our Empire to thrive as long as theirs. There is no reason it should not endure longer, if we can foresee the problems that led to Rome's downfall. With the increasing restrictions placed upon us in recent years, however, I hold little hope for our lasting impact on the world. Such things have happened, but—these are grand matters; I expect such things do not interest you."

Sophia was too old to simper, so instead she sighed, looking bashfully down at the books. "I suspect all this may be beyond me, but I long to comprehend such grand ideas. Perhaps not comprehend," she shielded her giggle with a modest hand, "I know that must require a better mind than mine. But it seems that such things are more worth a person's time and attention than the trifles you discussed earlier."

"Ah. I do not ask your pardon for speaking so bluntly. The world would be a better place if only we could look distasteful facts in the eye and accept them, instead of willfully blinding ourselves."

"Then you _do_ think love is an illusion?"

"It is a useful one, to be sure. It attracts husband and wife together, which leads to the creation of families. The Romans built their society upon strong families. Families are likewise undoubtedly the foundation upon which _our_ Empire rests. Yet relying on such a flimsy passion as love to support such a massive, world-shaping machine is folly. Logic would serve the same purpose and avoid the confusion that occurs when women—and certain men—realize at last that love fades like a dream with the dawn."

"But surely, even if love is not real, feelings of affection are not wholly feigned. And parents and children share a bond that goes beyond that. Does it not make your life seem bleak to believe," she let her eloquent eyes widen and meet his for the first time, "that you may never find a woman to admire?"

Mr. Ludlow shook his head with the tight, mocking mouth of one who anticipates disillusioning a child. "Do not be offended, but there are few women in the world worthy of true admiration. You seem sensible; surely you must _feel_ this too?"

How charitable of him to put her own feelings in terms she could understand. Sophia bent her head as if crushed by his pronouncement, but the interlude gave her cover to roll her eyes unobserved.

"I am sure you are right. Perhaps it is foolish to hope, but I wish I could think as rationally as you do. Perhaps if I were to read your favorite author, I might catch a shadow of his meaning?"

"If you apply to a regular course of study, I see no reason why it should not benefit you in some small way," he allowed, pleased with his own generosity, "The Stoics always appealed to me. They dealt with the simple facts of life, setting themselves the task of addressing those facts with cold, calm rationality. A good example to the world of the present, would you not agree?"

He did not wait for her answer.

"Read Marcus Aurelius' _Meditations_. I find it the perfect antidote to our contemporaries' pointless fixation on the passions of their mismanaged hearts."

"I thank you," she said, pressing her lips together as though to stifle one last grateful effusion for his bestowed wisdom. Leave him with the sense that he had impressed her into silence upon the subject of her own feelings. Her act was good, but a man with the subtlety of a brick wall would likely be unable to appreciate the nuances of her performance. A pity.

There was no nuance in his reaction. He puffed like a proud rooster. Had he a beak, Sophia thought he would have preened for her then and there.

"Mr. Ludlow," Miss Cork interjected, lips drawn over the words as though she had cut them off with a blade, "we are adjourning for tea. Will you come this way, Miss...I beg your pardon, I am still not certain how to pronounce your name?"

"Herrera," Sophia said, her own smile cutting, "I would be delighted, Miss Cork."

With a final curtsy and a shy smile, Sophia made as if to follow their hostess.

"Allow me, Miss Herrera," Mr. Ludlow was not beyond the reach of such useless forms as common courtesy. He stepped forward to offer his arm, cutting before Miss Cork to do it.

Though he afterwards took Miss Cork on his other arm, Sophia felt the full force of her hollow victory. She had succeeded in catching a boring, pompous man to spite a vicious, selfish woman.

She hoped Diana would be pleased. Her own feelings on the matter were too depressed to bear examination.

* * *


	9. IX

**IX**

Days passed into weeks, each one drifting into the other as gently and impersonally as foam bubbles cresting a mid-ocean wave. Like a dinghy without anchor, helpless on the tide, Sophia rode the swell of each wave as it arrived. As November ceded its reign to December, she found it increasingly difficult to tell the days apart, save for the furs and muffs they had to adopt as feather snowflakes kissed exposed hands and bitter winds lashed bare necks.

Like any seasoned sailor, Sophia accepted that the tide which guided her was not of her making. The fashionable world had existed long before she arrived in England; nothing she could ever do would affect it to the slightest degree, save to give idle ladies and bored gentlemen something to chatter over when she left. It was Diana who, with ambition and will, charted their course through dangerous currents and maelstroms, driving them into ever-deeper waters.

All Sophia could do was follow her.

This she did, without question. She followed Diana into boxes at the theater, into elegant drawing rooms, to private dinner parties, to concerts and dances and luncheons. No matter how far they ranged, their circle only seemed to tighten. The Herreras had found footing on their own level; soon they had met everyone who shared it with them.

Their world now could offer nothing new. The same faces met them at every event. The same gossip passed from mouth to mouth. There came a point when Diana and Sophia were laying sixpence on who would say what, and in what order. One or the other was usually right.

There was one note of brightness in this chorus of monotony, for, despite her best efforts, Captain Mayfair had become a daily presence in their lives.

Sophia had tried to avoid it. Her manner when they first met after the ball had not surpassed what was civil and proper. This calm affectation had not discouraged him; it did not even give him pause. Every day the Herrera ladies were at home, he was certain to be among the acquaintance that came to chat, and one of the few who remained longer than civility required.

After the first week of this friendly behavior, Sophia could no longer maintain her chilly guard. _He_ certainly took no notice of it. Warm, open, and cheerful, he was such an agreeable guest that Sophia often thought of his visits as the only thing in her day worth anticipating. She fancied herself only softening, when indeed her defenses had melted. It was only, she thought, that he had such _good_ conversation! Their half-hour chats piqued her interest and revived her spirits, though they ranged over topics as broad as international trade or as narrow as the Gothic cathedrals in Barcelona.

He had clearly made Spain an object of study.

Moreover, it was clearly _her_ company that he valued. Aside from his civil attentions to Diana's latest gossip and Mrs. Herrera's needs, he addressed the rest of his remarks to Sophia. There was no notion of secrecy in such behavior.

Sophia trusted that her own would be enough to head him off. In a way, she _did_ regret that she could not make herself love him. A man with his mind, powers, and talents deserved nothing less in a wife.

In her few quiet moments, regret and guilt lay upon her like a blanket of snow.

On a Saturday morning one week before Christmas, she woke more abstracted than usual. An icy finger had grazed her window in the night, tracing lacy patterns of crystalline frost over the glass, catching early morning light in a prismatic display of pale rainbows. Nestled beneath thick covers, she lay for a quarter-hour or more watching them dance on the curtains.

It was not until a martial flurry of knocks drummed at her door, followed swiftly by a frazzled Diana, that Sophia recalled what an important day it was.

"What are you doing still abed?" Diana's habitual cheery eagerness was worn fretful, "Lydia is waiting to pin our hems, Mama is fluttering about her ensemble, and all this would be immaterial if I could be here today to attend to it myself, but Jane Cork wrote yesterday evening begging me to consult with her about _her_ ensemble, and if you do not stir yourself to take care of Mama today I swear I will scream!"

Sophia blinked. "Oh, yes. The Worthington ball is today. I suppose," she murmured, "we shall have no company this morning."

"What? Do not _dare_ to tell me you forgot?" her sister wailed, "Our first true London ball of our first London season, and you have forgot?"

"I did not forget. I merely misplaced the day."

To prevent Diana from shrieking, fainting, or boxing her ears, she rose immediately, wrapping herself in a dressing-gown to ward off what chills the tired flames could not banish.

"Do not worry yourself, Diana. Tonight will be your night of triumph. But if you contort your face like a monkey no one will recognize the beautiful girl of all the rumors. Is there anything else you need me to do but look after Mama and see to our dresses?"

"No," when removed from the raging fires, Diana's steam whistled out, "Thank you. It is only this letter from Jane that troubles me. She wrote out-of-spirits and desperate for advice. I do not regret befriending that girl, but she does require a good deal of attention."

"And now you understand the trials of an elder sister," Sophia patted her shoulder, "But if you would gain much, you must spend much. And by my calculations, you have gained far more from her than she ever could from you."

"If you are speaking of Mr. Ludlow, he is _your_ gain, not mine. And this time, I do not blame you for your lack of interest. Goodness! To think that such a birthright must be wasted on such a vacuous popinjay! The woman who marries him will have far lower standards than you."

"I believe you mean that as a compliment. So I thank you. However, will you not do me the favor of telling me how much more attention I must waste on that pompous bully?"

"Is not every instant—excruciating though it may be—worth it to see Miss Cork's wrinkles deepen?"

* * *

Later, after conquering a veritable mountain of velvet, satin, and lace, Sophia was permitted to don a simple everyday dress and attend Mrs. Herrera in the morning room. Her mother looked up from the newspaper with a face glowing bright as her youngest daughter's. Time had done as her doctor said and strengthened her lungs, and Mrs. Herrera had been able to take far more pleasure from their social rounds than either Sophia or Diana had in weeks.

What with relatives to visit, history to hear, new fashions to admire, and culture to absorb, Mrs. Herrera was as much a debutante as either of her daughters.

"It will be such a trial to endure the hours today," she greeted her daughter with a plate of muffin and a steaming teakettle, "Is everything about your gown to your liking?"

"With all the hours of shopping and debate we spent on it," she made herself say 'spent' in place of 'squandered', "I would be foolish indeed to say no. But I have no need to. It is a success in every respect. I only shudder to think what Papi will say when he receives the bill."

"Your father will only regret not seeing you in that lovely shade. Garnet is so fine against your skin," Mrs. Herrera reached out to stroke the back of Sophia's hand, "Such a lovely, clear brown."

"Yes. It certainly leaves no doubt about my heritage."

"It is not so noticeable. No one has been unkind, surely?"

"Not that I have heard. But there are those who...well. I will not share their pitiful insults, if they were meant to be so. It is nothing to resent, but more than enough to weary."

"My darling," Mrs. Herrera's gentle smile firmed into two narrow lines, "No wonder."

"No wonder?"

"It is only that I have been curious as to the cause of your struggle to be happy here. At one point I thought that," she paused, shaking her head, "No matter what I thought. Anything of _that_ nature I know you would have told me. But you know that you have a perfect right to be where you are? Your family on my side is beyond reproach."

"Oh, Mama," her hand itched to pull back, but Sophia forced herself to stay still, "You must not worry for me. I am amazed at your confusion, when it is a standing joke between you and Diana how resistant to change I am. Did you never consider that my apparent distaste for life here had anything to do with missing the land that for twenty-four years was all I knew as home?"

Grateful though she was that her secret was unsuspected, Sophia could not help the edge of bitterness that soured her tone.

"Did not you keep a vision of England in your heart, no matter how long you lived in Spain? Do not blame me for doing likewise. Do not ask me to forget all I knew and loved in a matter of months."

"I do not ask you to forget. I am not so unreasonable," Mrs. Herrera's brow furrowed, Sophia's allusion having touched her on the raw, "Only I worry you will miss the good to be found here. We have made many new friends, have we not?"

"Yes," she tried to play her words off with a laugh, "I am very glad indeed to have met Miss Wright, Miss Cork—"

"Oh, for shame!" Mrs. Herrera seemed as willing to drop their painful conversation, "Are you not forgetting someone?"

"Well, does not my having made a devoted friend in Captain Mayfair put your concerns to rest? I have been a great flirt since arriving; even Diana would agree. How many times has she regaled you with her account of how I captivated a baronet's son?"

"Very well," her mother chuckled, "I admit myself outmaneuvered. Captain Mayfair at least is a friend well worth having. I am always pleased when he comes to call."

Sophia busied herself with breakfast to avoid the temptation to make an arch rejoinder: _then you must find reason to be pleased more often than is decent._

Guilt returned at the thought of him, mingled with regret in the knowledge that she would likely not see him until the day after tomorrow. Lady Worthington had not made any mention of him being among her guests; she had but small acquaintance in the Navy.

"You are abstracted," there was a smile on Mrs. Herrera's face that made her daughter squirm, "Perhaps I should leave you to your fantasies?"

"Please do not. They are not as beguiling as you suppose."

"Why not? You have a very beguiling prospect awaiting you. The season is officially begun; this will be your first ball with a congenial chaperone, if I may be so bold. You need not even stop to compliment her ladyship's gown if you would rather leave the flattery to me. All that awaits you is a night of pleasure."

"It will be, of course. Forgive me, I should not have spoken before my second cup of coffee. You know I am grim in the mornings."

"You were not always so. I recall days when you and Maria could barely wait for breakfast before rushing out of the house. All day you would gad about, till I was quite ashamed to call such a wild thing my daughter."

"Those days are years gone, Mama," Sophia sighed; her lips softened fondly at the corners, "Perhaps the wild thing is still within, but I fear she has not the courage to reemerge without her sister by her side."

"Yes, Maria did always bring out the worst in you. I tried to keep you separate, but she was too tempting for you. Taking you to unsuitable places, urging you to slip away from your governess," these were old irritations, spoken with fresh agitation, "You would hardly speak English to me until I had her sent from the nursery."

"All that is long past," Sophia hastily interjected, "We have other prospects to consider. Now, Diana has tasked me with setting you at ease regarding your dress for tonight. Tell me, was Madame Aubert able to find enough of that peacock-blue velvet piping you wanted for your sleeves?"

* * *


	10. X

**X**

A true London evening party was a far different animal than any beast the girls had encountered thus far. The crush to make even the turn into Harley Street required them to wait a full ten minutes. Then their poor horses languished in the morass of carriages until their stamping hooves and twitching tails sparked a matching impatience in Sophia.

"We will be half the night just getting to the door at this rate. Shall we not get down and walk? The night is not so cold."

"My dear, while I share your impatience, do recall you would not be walking on pavement," Mrs. Herrera replied, a twinkle of amusement shining in her lively eyes, "Think how many horses have been on the street before you. It is best simply to wait."

"I must say, I had no idea it would be this busy," Diana put in, pressing her head to the side-glass, from which she commanded a narrow view of the door, "I have seen half a dozen parties streaming in and yet we have hardly moved in five minutes. There must be a hundred or more people inside already."

"If it were only a hundred I should think Lady Worthington showing unprecedented restraint. Her balls of old were notorious for their numbers. We always used to joke that she was rallying an army, not gathering her friends."

"Our Aunt Viola met her husband at one of Lady Worthington's balls, did she not?"

"She did. Sometime between dinner and ices, I believe it was. Although perhaps her ladyship knows what she is about, crowding her rooms as she does. Viola always maintained that, caught in a crush by a banister, Mr. Wilson trod on her toe; she had to sit down for the rest of the evening. I imagine it was guilt that kept him with her the whole night, but he insists it was Viola's charming manner. He called on us the next morning, and on every morning thereafter."

"How romantic," Diana laughed, "though if any man breaks my toes tonight, he will have to be charming indeed to make me forget it. If _I_ have my way, I will dance to the very last song."

"I do not doubt your having your way," Sophia remarked, "If we ever arrive, that is. Oh do let's walk," she begged them, "If Diana can see the door we cannot be too far away. And just now there is no one beside us."

The carriage took that opportunity to lurch forward, but before their hearts had a chance to burst with relief, it slid to a stop again. Sophia's argument carried the day.

"I agree, Mama. We are not too far; I venture to say we can support you down the stairs as well as James can. Will it be too hard for you?"

"No, my darlings. I concede; I suppose it is not fair to keep you from your dancing. But for heaven's sake be careful."

Diana knocked on the roof to tell the driver to keep the carriage still; slinging her train over one arm, Sophia opened the door and stepped gingerly down into the muck of mingled mud and manure. The flickering lights from the surrounding carriages and their own torches showed clearly her mother knew her business. It was a matter of some skill to keep her shoes fresh as she let down the stairs.

Diana was first to join her on the street; together the girls supported Mrs. Herrera down. Their footman had joined them by then and, with an injunctions to Miss Sophia that she would never act so reckless again, put up the stairs and confirmed once more the time at which he was to return for them.

Business done, the Herrera ladies maneuvered to the sidewalk and arrived safely at the house.

By day, Sophia could not recall having noticed anything particularly grand in the architecture of the Worthington townhouse. To be sure it was a respectable building, standing one story above its neighbors, with graceful Palladian lines stretching towards heaven, crowned with a triangular pediment faced with bas-relief sculptures of dancing figures. It was broad as well, with one central edifice flanked by sweeping wings. Even a brief glimpse through the window one could see the Worthington's were people of means, if not always of the greatest elegance. Each room facing the street was finished in the latest style, in rich imported fabrics and curios from all over the Empire.

Yet by night, even practical Sophia found herself dazzled. Each window blazed with illumination to rival the full moon overhead. The curtains were thrown open to reveal the bacchanal within, framed in pine boughs strung with ornaments of glass and porcelain that glittered in the candlelight. Music poured through the open door, sweet and infectious, tempting even those who were not invited to pause a moment and dance.

But it seemed impossible that anyone on the street or within the neighborhood's bounds was not already within. The ladies passed into a crowded retiring room to leave their cloaks and attend their hair; already the press was almost too much for Sophia. Women chattered about them as busy as chickens, pecking away at each others' dress and appointments.

Once in the drawing room, Sophia could barely fetch breath. The dozens of candles that shone from every surface and the massive chandeliers overhead filled the room with a film of smoke trapped inside by firmly latched windows. Add to that the panting, gasping, talking, and laughing of three hundred guests and even her composure was not quite a match for the scene.

There was no time to look for anyone, nor opportunity to forge new acquaintance. The ladies found a corner and secured glasses of wine from a stone-faced footman to watch the scene in relative comfort. Watch was all they could do; talking was utterly useless. But the scene provided much to interest, even if it was so varied Sophia's eyes strained with the task of deciding what to observe next.

No one approached them; while some of their few acquaintance _were_ there, they were entirely overwhelmed by the number and quality of the other guests. Men and women of the first circles, arrayed in the finest style money could provide, paraded before them in an endless display of finery that their best efforts only just matched.

For the first time, Sophia glimpsed firsthand her own social insignificance. Here in this room were gathered power, money, and birth; three magical keys that unlocked the very highest tier of existence in the civilized world. Anyone lacking even one of those keys could never hope to balance her shortcomings.

Birth Mrs. Herrera had, though she had undone its value by her marriage. Their unfortunate heritage was one the sisters could never hide. Power was not a woman's birthright; none of them were married to any.

This left money. Money the Herreras had, though, being accumulated by trade, it lacked the respectability of landed wealth. Still, no one would know this to look at them. Only Sophia would reflect with irony on how she must now perforce be grateful for her father's money, and feel shamed anew at all he had done to accumulate it.

Sophia turned away from the crowd, setting her shoulders firm so she might not be jostled. Mrs. Herrera was pale and her eyes were distant; the scene passed before her but seemed to make no impression. Was she perhaps imagining old triumphs, past glories?

Diana's face was flushed, almost feverish in its intense color. Her fingers drummed on the wineglass she gripped with both hands; her toes tapped out a beat to the country dance so it seemed she was dancing even as she stood still. Less abstracted than their mother, she sensed Sophia's gaze and met her eyes with a wolfish grin that showed each one of her pearlescent teeth.

Rising on tip-toe, she shouted into Sophia's ear:

"We should find our hostess!"

Sophia nodded, turning to relay the suggestion to their mother. It took several attempts for Mrs. Herrera to hear them, and another for her to catch their meaning. When she did, she shook her head.

"I am very well here. You go; give my regards to Lady Worthington. I see several of my acquaintance; I will talk with them later."

Protests, objections, all offered in tones near to screaming, as there was no other way to be heard. Yet Mrs. Herrera was firm.

"Go! I have no desire to dance and even less to see her ladyship."

The sisters went.

"Do you see anyone we know?"

"Not since we arrived. Perhaps they are already above."

Not once during their many dutiful visits to see her ladyship had either Diana or Sophia seen the grand ballroom, said to be the best in Harley Street. It spanned the length of the house on the second floor, its windows reached from floor to ceiling. They joined the glacial stream of people inching towards this promise of paradise, this inaccessible Xanadu.

From a mix of boredom and curiosity, Sophia began to count the songs they heard during the wait. Near four passed by before the squeezed through the double doors.

Sophia gasped, hand squeezing Diana's. There was nothing to rival this, not in all the halls, parlors, drawing-rooms or ballrooms she had ever danced in before. The size of it was staggering; its design immaculate. A trompe l'oeil painting of some mythological scene dominated the ceiling and extended down the walls, broken by panels of brocade hung with family portraits. Candles in mirrored sconces reflected light off a hundred shining surfaces; gilt shone like liquid sunlight.

A small orchestra sat on an elevated stage draped in green velvet, just to one side of a yawning fireplace roaring with enormous tongues of fire. To the other side of the hearth, Lady Worthington was holding court with a fawning audience of her oldest friends, the feathers of their elaborate turbans fluttering in the fire's heat. Reaching her was out of the question.

A merry country dance fired the heart and added joy and animation to the scene. Despite her frustration and anxiety, a smile spread wide on Sophia's face.

Diana bounced on her toes. "Oh, Sophie! I cannot help myself. I _must_ dance if I have to fling myself into someone's arms to catch a partner."

"You shall not have to," she replied, though she almost wished to see Diana forced to such an expedient, "Look there! I see a party of some we know."

Thankfully their slow approach, skirting the edge of the dancing couples, gave Mr. Ludlow enough time to catch sight of them. As he surveyed Sophia, radiant in garnet and ivory, with smoldering rubies at her ears and throat, even he had to throw off his facade of superior lassitude and welcome her with a smart bow.

"Miss Herrera, Miss Diana," he said, not bothering to raise his voice a hair. The girls found themselves attempting to read his lips over trying to listen for his meaning. "I am pleased to see you," he gestured to the others in his party, "My sister, Miss Patricia Ludlow; my brother, Mr. William Ludlow."

They curtsied. Miss Ludlow was thin and birdlike; their brother was robust and nearsighted. At least, Sophia assumed he was. Squinting as an affectation was not something she could recall seeing, not in the absence of a lorgnette. They both had more genuine smiles than their brother.

Conversation was impossible. For several moments, they merely lingered around each other in awkward, smiling silence. Then Mr. William Ludlow stepped boldly forward to take Sophia's hand and ask for the pleasure of a dance.

She obliged him, glad to be out of the maelstrom on the untroubled space of the floor. The younger Mr. Ludlow had enough physical presence to guide her through the crush, though he had otherwise a forgettable air. But he was a competent partner, if a bit dull; his conversation never varied beyond what was expected as they passed.

Still, to dance in such a place with a partner of note in a gown so becoming was precisely the cordial Sophia needed; by the end of the first dance she was laughing with the most skilled coquettes. Mr. William hung on her words, dazzled by her brilliance, and she enjoyed _that_ as well, tossing her head so the jewels in her ears danced as joyfully as she.

As he led her from the floor he bowed shyly and asked for the pleasure of another dance. She was just about to reply when another figure loomed up before her.

All at once, she was smiling at Captain Mayfair.


	11. XI

**XI**

"Captain!" she cried, "What an unexpected pleasure to see you here. You did not mention you were to be among the guests tonight."

"Until yesterday I was not," he said, bowing. A familiar hand reached out to take hers, pausing at the last instant.

At Mr. Ludlow's gentle pressure on the hand he still retained, Sophia remembered her manners.

"I beg your pardon; Mr. William Ludlow, Captain Mayfair. Captain Mayfair is one of our oldest London friends."

"Ah, Mayfair. I have heard your name before, I believe?"

"And I yours, sir. I am acquainted with your older brother."

Jostled by other dancers coming to the floor, the three of them forged a path towards the remaining Ludlows and Diana; by the time they had pushed through the crowd however, all signs of them were gone.

"They must have been swept away by the current," Sophia said, shaking her head. She could not blame them; maintaining any steady position in such a crush was impossible. "It is too bad. I am sure Diana would have liked to see you, Captain. But how come you here?"

"By the personal invitation of her ladyship herself," the Captain replied, "We met at the theater yesterday; her ladyship's guest, the same Mrs. Driscoll at whose ball we first met, recalled me to her memory and begged that Lady Worthington include me among her guests this evening. Her ladyship looked a bit sour at the imposition, but she agreed at last. I suppose a poor Captain has not the standing to be included in such a rout as this. Among the naval crowd, I see no one of lower rank than Admiral."

"How kind of Mrs. Driscoll," Sophia stifled a smile, "I had not thought she had the spirit to be moved by a man's fine features or good figure. Should I see her, I must remember to thank her for so improving the quality of the company."

Captain Mayfair bowed at her compliments.

"Is it so deficient? Do you not find any others worth praising, Miss Herrera?" Mr Ludlow interjected. His thin lips twisted in a frown that transformed him from plain young man to injured puppy.

Sophia took pity, as it was unthinkable to do otherwise. "Indeed I do, Mr. Ludlow. It is only that, by virtue of being such an old friend, I must take every opportunity of flattering the Captain beyond the bounds of good sense. You must not take me at my word," she assured him, "In addition, I must be sure to stay in the Captain's good graces, as I must beg him to use his superior height to spy for my sister?"

He obliged her at once. "I can see her; she looks in spirits. She has just taken to the floor with Mr. Cox. Shall I take you to her?"

He offered one elegant gloved hand. Sophia took it with a smile.

"I would be honored. You will excuse me, Mr. Ludlow?"

"Of course," he said, bowing, "I hope to have the honor again, Miss Herrera."

The dance had already begun by the time they joined the bottom of the set.

"Miss Herrera, I have not the words to express how lovely you are tonight," they passed, "I must admit, when her ladyship invited me, I accepted only so that I might have the pleasure of seeing you."

"You are very kind, sir. But you need not flatter _me._ I see all manner of women who are lovelier by far."

"You mistake me, and I cannot think you do so on purpose. You must know there is no other woman in London I admire so much as you."

"Please, Captain," she blushed red as her rubies, "this is too bold."

"Forgive me," they cast up the set. Back to back, he murmured, "You know I have not the art of hiding my feelings, nor any measure of that delicacy so favored by well-bred gentlemen. I say only what I think and feel."

Her heart throbbed in her temples.

"You do yourself a disservice. You are quite as capable of controlling yourself as any other man," she was beginning to be angry; were they not encircled by hundreds of observing eyes, Sophia would have walked away from him, "A measure of honesty is refreshing; too much is offensive."

He had the grace to look ashamed. "Forgive me."

Sophia nodded, but her throat was too tight for speech. They passed three further couples in silence, each nursing sensations of irritation and disappointment. In addition to these two, Sophia's guilt pricked her painfully. She ought not have spoken so warmly to him before, no matter how glad she had been to see him. _Her_ unguarded manner had invited _his._

Still, she was astonished. The Captain was honest, which she both knew and appreciated, but he had never been indelicate. No matter what she might have done, it had not been enough to invite such behavior.

"I hear that your sister is to be congratulated."

Nothing short of this could have pulled her from the quicksand morass of her thoughts. Sophia tried not to betray any shock as she replied, "If she is, I have hard nothing of it."

"Is that so? Yet anyone who knows Mr. Banner says he is smitten. I was surprised to hear it as well; a man so frivolous ought not to think of marriage."

"Mr. Banner!" Sophia laughed; it was so baseless a rumor that she could not help herself, "We have not seen him for over a week. If that is his behavior as a lover, I hold no hope for their engagement. Certainly Diana does not mean to encourage him."

"Does she not?"

There was something in his tone Sophia did not like. Perhaps it was merely an attempt to be jocular, but it spoke more of smug suspicion, as though he were accusing Diana of something untoward. More and more she wished to leave the dance, but the song seemed interminable. Best to play off her frustration, hoping he would not notice.

"You are pleased to be enigmatic tonight, Captain Mayfair. But I assure you if you are trying to quiz me, I know nothing of the matter. My thoughts are not on anyone's marriage, least of all my sister's."

"Well, that is something of a disappointment. My thoughts have been drifting that way of late."

Sophia swallowed, turning into the next figure with hands that shook so she almost missed her partner's exchange. Her thoughts raced. This was a dangerous thread of conversation she must break, if she could.

"Have I upset you?"

She could hardly answer. When she did, her tone was ice. "You have raised a subject I have no wish to discuss."

"My apologies," he drew back, barely meeting her hand with his own as they turned, "I had no wish to make you uncomfortable."

There was nothing more to be said. With a nod and a weak smile, the conversation dropped entirely, without hope or wish of recovery. They finished the dance in silence and parted with empty courtesies on both sides.

Pale, discomfited, and alone, Sophia scuttled towards the end of the room, an insect frightened of light and exposure. Every face seemed hostile, every smile appeared to jeer. Biting her lip and raising her chin, Sophia snapped open her fan, shielding her trembling lips. By the time she reached something of a haven to the lee of a fastened window, she had command of herself once more.

There she waited, feathers of her fan wavering in the constant ebb and flow of breath and bodies. Waited for what, she could not say. The Ludlows had vanished; Diana was a distant vision, dancing with a man she did not recognize. What she would have given for the sight of Rose Wright, or even Miss Cork! An enemy's presence would be better than having her isolation observed by every jaded face.

She could just imagine their thoughts. The Herrera girl, they would say. The offspring of an elopement with a Spanish tradesman. Come after years to make a match with a true Englishman. Such a mean spirit! Such a trader's mentality! No wonder she was standing alone and friendless.

How she longed to show them what a _real_ match looked like! A match of spirits, tastes, and strengths, a match stronger in every way than the most royal coupling would ever be!

With Domingo at her side...but no. He would laugh at this crowd; tepid, selfish, insipid as it was, but he would nonetheless be no comfort to her there. He would not know how to be. However much scorn they heaped on her, it would be worse for him.

Even to save herself from this wretched state, Sophia would never insult him by forcing him to mix with such as these.

To honor him, Sophia resolved to stand on her own strength, refusing to be cowed. Tall and womanly she stood, fine features arrayed calm and secure against the torrent of painful thoughts within. Mr. Banner, upon the point of proposing to her sister. Could it be true? And Captain Mayfair, interests pointed and intrusive; the very friend's presence she had relied upon to shore her up had instead washed the foundation from beneath her uncertain feet.

"Miss Herrera! What do you here all alone?"

"Mr. Cox," she said, curtsying, "Nothing more than awaiting my sister."

"Yes. She is in good spirits tonight, I see."

"You know how she adores dancing. I was pleased to see you be the first to oblige her."

"It was my pleasure. Just as it will be my pleasure to dance with you, if you will?"

"I would be delighted," she said, fanning a sudden swell of grateful tears from her eyes.

Delight, however, was not accurate. It would do. Being escorted—even by a beau of her sister's—was preferable to lingering alone. At least this way she had a chance of reuniting with Diana before dinner. And there was even a thin sort of enjoyment to be had in the dance; Mr. Cox was by no means an inadequate partner. Light and insincere, laughing sometimes rather than attending, he knew stories about everyone and did not require an active listener to tell them.

Yet even his humor and conversation languished. Like Sophia, he was more focused on Diana than either his partner or his feet. As his eyes followed Diana's aerial form through the set, Sophia had the cold comfort of knowing she was not the only disappointed soul in the room.

As though sensing their eyes on her, Diana turned and flashed them a smile. They both returned it.

"Your sister is angelic tonight. Had she wings and a halo, she would be the very image of a heavenly spirit. Miss Herrera, I know this is not my place, but...has your sister ever spoken of me?"

Oh dear. ""She considers you a good friend, Mr. Cox. I know she values your taste and enjoys your wit. She also says," Sophia hesitated, "she believes you have a kind heart."

Perhaps it was an overstatement, but in such a delicate case she had rather say more than less. The last part was her own invention; Diana valued kindness, but not over other virtues. Nor had she reason to be as grateful for Mr. Cox's kindness than Sophia was then.

Clearly this question, as well as the contented smile that spread over Mr. Cox's face as he heard her answer, indicated an acquaintance deeper than Sophia knew. Whatever Diana's plans were regarding Mr. Cox, she hoped she had not spoiled them one way or the other.

"Does she? Does she indeed?"

So dazzled was he by Sophia's praise that he barely paused an instant when the dance was over to make his bows to her. Sophia followed his impetuous bolt up the line to where Diana's partner had just left her.

"Sophia! Mr. Cox! You two make an excellent couple; Lord Dillingham himself remarked on it."

"No one could be more elegant than you," Mr. Cox bowed, drawing her hand under his arm, "I was telling your sister what a vision you are tonight."

She dimpled. "You are too kind, Mr. Cox. But you have already praised me enough this evening; say more, and I shall begin to doubt your sincerity."

"I shall do my best to oblige you in anything, Miss Diana. Beginning, perhaps, by escorting you to the next dance?"

"I must beg your pardon, but the air in here is very close. I was about to ask Sophia to join me for a drink."

"Then I will accompany you," he said, immediately bringing her about, "Her ladyship has set out refreshments in the second drawing-room downstairs."

"Sophia," Diana stopped Mr. Cox from leading her away with a press of her fan, "will you come for some punch?"

"Yes," she had nothing else to do, "This place _is_ very warm."


	12. XII

**XII**

Half the fun of a party was discussing it the next morning, yet neither Herrera sister had been in spirits to do so over breakfast. Diana, footsore and contemplative, chose to bury herself in letters from her Spanish friends, neglected for several weeks. Sophia, fatigued and cross, tried to distract herself with the paper. It could not hold her interest and was no distraction from her unsatisfactory reveries.

Therefore they both pounced eagerly, tossing aside letters and paper, as the butler announced Miss Rose Wright. They barely allowed her the comfort of removing her muff before adjourning to the morning room with tea and chocolates, to pour stories in her willing ears.

Miss Wright drank two cups of tea before managing to get a word in edgewise.

"It sounds like a magnificent ball. I wish I could have been there."

"I was surprised you were not. Your older brother-in-law is a member of Parliament, is he not? That would make he and Lord Worthington colleagues."

"That is true in theory, though the House of Lords and House of Commons do not often have much intercourse. He and my sister Louisa were invited. But Louisa is a mere month from her confinement and often feels too poorly for evening entertainment. None of my other sisters received an invitation and I doubt her ladyship is aware of my existence. A second-season debutante from an insignificant family is worth very little attention."

"It was our loss," Sophia assured her. "I would have traded any number of eligible men for your presence. In a crowd of hundreds I think we had merely a handful of acquaintance, and none so congenial as you."

"You flatter me, I am sure. But you could not have missed me so very much; Diana mentioned you had a great many partners, including one whose attentions have been quite pointed of late."

"Diana," she groaned, batting at her complacent sister with her handkerchief, "I was absent five minutes, asking after Mama! Did you do nothing but gossip about me?"

"Naturally. After all, I am quite proud that you have found such a good match. Captain Mayfair is a man of education, experience, and fortune. Not to mention a steadiness of character not often to be found in London."

There was a sigh in Diana's voice that weighed on her smiling lips.

"How very jaded you are," Rose put in with a smirk, "One would think you had been ten seasons in town, not only a portion of one. And it is not yet Christmas; take heart, many of the best men arrive only at the turn of the year."

"Diana needs no more men, please. By my count she has three at least; though in truth I may have forgotten one or two."

Diana popped a chocolate into her mouth and grimaced. "And who are these cavaliers you would saddle me with?"

Sophia counted them on her fingers. "Mr. Banner was the first, though we have not seen much of him in recent weeks, I suppose that means he has fallen from the faith," so she hoped, at least, "Mr. Cox is your most faithful adherent, and he made no attempt at concealing his enthusiasm for you last night. He is ripe for the plucking; a bit more encouragement and he should fall into your lap. Then there is Mr. Ludlow; though I wooed him first, I cede all rights to you. It _was_ your idea to steal him from Miss Cork, after all. There. Have I omitted any others?"

"You are very saucy this morning," Diana scowled, "You will have a very good impression of her today, Miss Wright, but I assure you that however bad she is now, she was a worse bear at breakfast. I could not imagine a wild creature could snarl so fiercely as she did when I asked her about her dance with Captain Mayfair, and she near took my head off when I wondered why there had not been another."

"She exaggerates," Sophia lied, taking a sip of her tea to hide her expression, "I was tired this morning. We both were, if you forget. Now, let us not quarrel before Miss Wright, lest she flee and leave us the monumental task of amusing each other."

"I do not mind," Rose laughed, "This reminds me of my own sisters and how we would tweak each other, the day after a ball. I miss it, despite how vicious we were to each other. Now that my sisters are all married, my parents' house is too quiet."

"In any case we shall still the chatter, especially as it involves men. Who cares for men?"

Sophia snorted, shaking her head. It was then Diana's turn to snarl.

"I do not see Mrs. Herrera this morning," Rose put in, a feeble attempt to keep the peace, "She is well, I hope?"

"Quite well. Last evening was later than she has been used to stay awake. She thinks it prudent to rest well today, that she may be in perfect health for our own Christmas party next week."

"Oh yes! I do so long for it. An elegant evening party is much more to my taste than an overcrowded ball."

"But there _will_ be dancing. I teased that concession from Sophia at last; even she admitted that a party without dancing would be most unfair to our guests."

"I believe I said that a party without _music_ would be a poor affair. And since neither of us can provide it, there will be a fiddler, perhaps more. We also depend upon your playing at least a few songs for us, Miss Wright."

"With pleasure, but I wonder you will not. I have heard you both play before with great enjoyment."

The sisters shared a knowing look.

"You are a kind friend, but you need not spare our feelings. The only pleasure a woman has ever had in listening to us play is the knowledge that she need not fear following our performance. Diana has a good voice but no notion of fingering, while _I_ croak like a frog after a single song."

"Perhaps you should play more duets?"

They shared a laugh. Sophia was about to congratulate her friend's perspicacity in unraveling their dilemma when the butler interrupted them.

"Captain Mayfair to see you, Miss."

Before he had finished his bow, Captain Mayfair, with a friend's easy presumption, entered the room.

"Miss Herrera, Miss Diana, Miss Wright. Forgive my intrusion."

"Not at all, Captain," Diana supplied the proper form when Sophia could only sink quietly back onto the sofa, "We were just discussing Lady Worthington's ball. Your perspective will be invaluable."

"Ah," he sat likewise, though on the edge of his chair, "I hope you had more enjoyment in it than I; I fear it was a gathering too large for anyone's comfort."

"You are too severe, surely."

"I do not believe so," he replied simply, "In such a mob it is impossible to speak to or even find the few people without whom a party lacks all luster. For example," he tried to shake off his gravity, "I did not even trade a word with you, Miss Diana."

"Which was a pity. Well, though there may be reason in what you say, I still think you exaggerate. I saw you dancing with Sophia; there must have been something agreeable in _that_. And is there not some pleasure to be found in the scale of such a spectacle?"

Was it her imagination, or did reference to their dance make the Captain as uncomfortable as she? Did he look abashed? Were his memories of their dance equally disagreeable? He avoided the subject entirely in his rejoinder.

"Scale is the one aspect her ladyship knows how to command. But perhaps I have been too long familiar with London balls. Small gatherings are more to my preference, which is why I am looking forward to your party so much, Miss Herrera."

Sophia nodded. "I hope it will fulfill your expectations."

"With such congenial hosts, there is no doubt."

The subject of the ball faltered; neither Sophia nor the Captain took up any further commentary on it. Diana, whose enthusiasm took several minutes to fail, soon read their mood and turned the conversation to Miss Wright's nephew's recovery from his fall. A fracture had apparently been found in one arm and the child had lain abed for weeks.

Shy in Captain Mayfair's presence, Miss Wright kept her answers short and presently announced she must leave. Her services were required at the house of another friend, preparing for yet another Christmas affair. With a flutter of good wishes and several joyful effusions about the Herrera party to come, the ladies parted.

Captain Mayfair sat on, answering all questions in his usual open tones. Recovered from his awkwardness earlier, there was now nothing out of the ordinary in his manner or appearance; despite this, Sophia's heart pounded in her breast. She could not meet his eyes, not having the power to raise them any higher than his cravat. When perforce she must answer his questions, she addressed her comments to her hands, her sister's discarded embroidery, or his boots.

"I will go upstairs for a moment to look in on Mama," Diana declared at last, glancing curiously from her sister to their guest. "She may want some tea."

"Is she unwell?"

"Merely fatigued by last night. I shall only be a moment."

Sophia did not dare look up, lest Captain Mayfair see the unspoken plea in her eyes. Nor was her tongue agile enough to fetch an excuse to accompany her. As the door shut behind Diana, Sophia turned in her chair and took up some piecework. After a long moment, she realized she was holding it upside-down.

"Miss Herrera."

"Yes, Captain?"

"I do not know how long we have, but I beg you to hear me."

"Of course," she forced an artificial note of levity into her faint voice, "I would hear anything from a friend."

He would not be deterred, even by the chilling title of 'friend'.

"I realize you do not love me. A woman like yourself cannot be won in a few weeks' acquaintance. But may I hope that, given time—"

"Please," she gasped, "please do not...I do not wish to raise any hopes."

"My hopes are my concern. I have been disappointed before and can be again, if needs be. But we are so well-suited to each other, do you not agree? Though you do not love me, I am not wrong in thinking you enjoy my company?"

She did not speak.

He went on. "I do not ask that you accept me now. I would never ask you to compromise yourself in such a way. I only hope that...please," they sat too far apart for his outstretched hand to reach hers, but he reached for her still. "Miss Herrera, look at me."

She did, though his image wavered in her tear-washed eyes.

His voice was ineffably gentle, a tone to calm a frightened horse.

"Is there not even the smallest chance that you might, one day, accept my proposal?"

Halting and uncertain, even of her own feelings, Sophia stammered out a reply.

"Captain, I am so sorry. I have been too unguarded in my manner, and I fear it has caused us both pain. I never meant to give you any impression of...my feelings for you are those of sincere friendship, that is all," her throat was so dry her voice cracked, "I wish you nothing but joy, but you will not find it with me."

Sophia, despite having known the heart-rending pain of disappointment in love, had never seen its reflection on any face other than her own. The painful contortion of the Captain's features twisted in her stomach like a knife; she had to close her eyes lest her tears began to fall.

"Forgive me," she whispered, "I wish that...that..."

She could not finish. What could she say? Knowledge of her prior attachment might help rid him of his own, but she knew better. The truth would do nothing to heal their wounds; only time would do that. Time, and the faithful keeping of secrets.

"Very well," he said, "Please, Miss Herrera, do not distress yourself. I came to you today with full knowledge of my chances. I regret to have caused you pain; I too wish you nothing but joy."

She felt the chill of his shadow slide across her as he took the next seat on her sofa. The heat of his hand warmed her frigid fingers long before they touched.

"May I?"

Sophia was too overwhelmed to refuse him more than she already had.

Carefully, as though her fingers were spun glass beneath a veil of silken skin, he brought her hand to his lips.

"I will not trouble you again. But I would have you know that I will still hope. My heart is yours; it will be yours until the day you decide to claim it."

"Please, sir—"

"Let us only continue as friends," he interrupted, laying her limp hand down on the sofa again, "That is something I would hate myself indeed for losing."

"We _are_ friends," she said, a lone tear sliding between her lips. Bitter salt coated her tongue as she spoke. "But we can never be more."

"Very well," he stood, "I wish you good day. May I continue to call on you as usual?"

She nodded, for she had not breath to object. Nor had she strength to raise her head to watch him bow, turn, and leave.

Alone then, even the pretense of restraint was too great a burden to bear. Tears fell thick and fast, raining into her handkerchief as she took shelter from the world. Sophia wept for Domingo, for the Captain, for herself. All victims of frustrated hopes, all nursing wounded hearts.

Could she love the Captain? He was more restrained than Domingo, more worldly, yet he had the same essence of daring forthrightness that had won her heart. Both men faced the world and its caprices on two steady legs, pursuing their desires in spite of all obstacles.

Domingo had known Sophia to be above him in every sense by which the world measures value. Yet he had known his own worth and trusted her to recognize it as well. She had.

Captain Mayfair had somehow divined Sophia's feelings, yet he too persisted. He felt the similarity in their souls, and knew it was too great to be ignored.

If she had never known Domingo, could she have loved the Captain?

Sophia knew the answer, but what was to be done? The great river of time could not be diverted from its course; it could no more run backwards than be restrained, even for an instant, by human hands.

She mourned for them. All of them.

Hearing her sister's footsteps on the stair, Sophia scrubbed her eyes free of tears and bolted for the servants' passage. Creeping like a thief behind the walls was humiliating, but it was infinitely preferable to being caught red-faced and tear-stained by a sister who could not understand.

Sophia stole into her own room and closed the door.

She would nurse her secrets in silence and dress her heartbreak alone.


	13. XIII

**XIII**

Sophia rose the following morning, as well as the three thereafter, supported on a skeleton of good intentions. She would conquer herself, master every wayward emotion, throw herself into her roles of daughter, sister, and friend. It helped that, by virtue of being such a dutiful daughter, sister, and friend, she was able to take every opportunity of sequestering herself from others in their service. Never had Sophia taken such interest in the marketing or millinery as she did in those first painful days after her interlude with the Captain.

All this, without mention of her correspondence, neglected for over a week. When melancholic memories threatened to swamp her, she excused herself and added another paragraph to her growing letter to Maria.

At last, the day arrived when this tactic would no longer serve her. Diana would brook no distractions on the day of their Christmas party. However, Sophia was satisfied with the letter as it stood.

_My dear sister,_

_Feliz Navidad! Christmas comes tomorrow, but I have no sense of it. This is a season for family, so without it, my heart is cold; I have never before been away from you, from home...even from Papi at this time of year. Without you, there seems no sense in any of our frantic merrymaking. If there is one benefit, it is that we are no longer at the mercy of poor Reverend Abernathy at the consulate church. Do you remember how he used to mistake enthusiasm for noise? Has he succeeded in shattering any windows in the church?_

_Here, we can choose from an array of celebrated clergymen and their very fine sermons, but I would trade all possible benefits to my soul if I could only go to Mass with you again. Do not excite yourself; I have no wish to convert. But you are right when you remark that there is something magical about Mass. The call and answer, the ebb and flow, the ceremony and mystery. It strikes me as somehow more_ whole _than a plain Protestant service. Still, even if I_ did _wish to convert, I could not; it would be the ruin of your relationship with Mama. She hated when we went to Mass together!_

_I can hear you already, insisting that I could disguise myself as we so often did to sneak into everything from parties to prayer...but the brave girl who would have dared anything with you at her side has been dyed gray by London's dishwater air. Forgive me. The holiday will pass without a single amusing story from me, I fear._

_But I have no wish to dwell on my frustrations. You have had enough of them these past months, I am sure!_

_So let me tell more interesting news. Perhaps you would have society? We have had no shortage of it. For at least two weeks now we have had engagements every evening. Card parties, balls, outings to the theater, dinners, concerts...but soon comes the greatest affair of all._

_I am sure Diana has told you all the details of our party already, as they are all she has spoken of lo these several days. Linen and silver, music and décor, dress...my hand falters, exhausted already! Would that you could simply_ be _here, not only to witness this grandeur, but also to spare me the trouble of writing of it!_

_Our party will try for elegance, as we have no space for grandeur; only fifty invitations were sent. Among these are some I have a real desire to see, but most are trophies and will serve about as interesting a purpose. Our fine aunt, for example. Our dull cousins, as another. But the youngest Miss Wright and younger Miss Cork have agreed to attend, as well as Mr. Cox, who among all Diana's prospects is the one most tolerable._ He _at least feels her superiority and endeavors to hide his own inadequacies in her presence._

_Such worship might not be to_ our _taste, but Diana humors him. She does little else than humor her admirers; I wonder how long it will go on. It is perhaps too early to expect a proposal, but...some men are intemperate._

_How this letter wanders, like a child lost in the woods! Had I ever more time to command than a half-hour stolen here and there from our many engagements, I would arrange it better. As it is, you have my mind entire, every thought strewn haphazardly across the paper as it rises in my mind._

_To conclude, then. You have long been awaiting my answer upon a certain subject. You have been very kind to listen to D on my behalf. I thank you for your patience. I wish I had the strength to ask you to close your ears—and, by proxy, mine—to him, but I cannot. Tell him that...that I will hear him one last time. He may write what he will in a sealed letter; you can then include it in your next to me._

_Please be careful not to bring that letter where Papi might find it. It would be best to have your own letter written before taking it to D. He can then seal it and carry it to the post for you. Yes, that will be safest._

_I know that asking you to carry this secret while asking no questions is unjust, but there is no one else either D or I can trust. I cannot receive anything from him directly; Diana would be certain to take note and would certainly tell Mama. Please, I beg you, just carry it for a while longer; as soon as I can rid us both of this burden, I will._

_Happy Christmas. Let us hope the next one brings us together again._

_Your loving,_

_Sophie_

She folded the letter and sealed it with a wafer, handing it to the butler when he came to refresh the coffee. The last paragraphs had brought a frown to her face, but a moment's reflection dispelled it. Her decision had been correct; though it would undoubtedly cause her pain to hear from Domingo again, she _had_ been unjust when breaking the engagement. Perhaps a little time and consideration on her side would ease them both.

"How in heaven's name did you find time to compose a letter?" Diana stared, shaking her head, "I do not believe I have penned a line other than joyful acceptance or sorrowful regrets for the entire month of December."

"That cannot be so. You wrote all the invitations for the party."

"You know what I mean! Poor Maria has written me thrice since my last, telling me that our patient duenna fears I have taken ill, it has been so long since my last to her. You make me ashamed of myself."

"You write to Duenna Garcia?"

"Of course I do," at Sophia's raised eyebrow, she conceded, "Well, I _have_ been ever since noticing a letter of yours to her. She forgave my silence."

"Naturally," Sophia reached for a muffin, "you were always her pet."

"Do not sniff at me, please! Especially when you are lying. I never botched a recitation without hearing how perfectly _you_ had done it at my age."

"Nevertheless, you were her pet. It was not I who crocheted that lovely blanket for her child, or who sat with her all those weeks she had the fever. You have so much more love in you than I."

"Sophie, do not say such things, even in jest," Diana was serious; she looked up from her pile of RSVPs with a frown creasing her pale forehead, "You are the most loving person I know besides Mama, and she is our mother. Love comes naturally to her."

"You are very kind. But," she sighed, "I do not ask for sympathy; it is the truth."

"No, it is not. I have it on good authority you have managed to create a fair bit of love in a certain person we both know. In a matter of weeks, too; in a man long resistant to the efforts of many other ladies."

If Diana intended her allusion to irritate Sophia from any maudlin reflections, she succeeded.

"If you refer to Captain Mayfair," she grumbled, "as I must assume you are, I have no idea what you are speaking of. He and I are friends, nothing more."

"Oh? Yet the intelligence I received was so sure."

"I have not the slightest desire to discuss this. Nor even to _hear_ of it until I have had another cup of coffee. Besides," she helped herself to coffee and dipped her muffin in it, "I have more than a few rumors to tease _you_ with, and they are all as unsubstantiated."

"What rumors? Who did you hear them from?"

Sophia smiled, dropping two cubes of sugar into her cup. As they dissolved, Diana's flurry of questions swirled around her.

"It is going to be a very long day."

* * *

She was mistaken. Hours passed as minutes, minutes in heartbeats, and before Sophia knew where she was, the doorbell was ringing to herald in the first of their guests. Punctual to a fault, Captain Mayfair strode in, fresh with winter air and breathing cold, to offer them the compliments of the season.

"Miss Diana," he turned away from Sophia immediately after his bow, "you have worked a miracle. If I had not been here so many times before, I should have imagined myself in the finest room in Bond Street."

"You are too kind," Diana grinned with honest joy, surveying the gauzy hangings and towering arrangements of holly and pine, "If I have won you over there can be no doubt of this party's succeeding with everyone."

"Am I so known for harsh judgment?"

"No, but for your candor, which we all value. But another must share in your praise; Sophia's taste contributed in great measure towards this beauty. The flowers were all under her command, and how many times she went back and forth to the shop I cannot tell."

"I am sure," he offered a tight smile and a stiff bow in Sophia's direction. Diana felt his coolness without understanding the cause.

An awkward pause succeeded, but the Captain's discipline soon reasserted itself to dispel it.

"Mrs. Herrera, I am remiss," he bowed low over her hand, "It is a pleasure to see you looking so well. Your presence has been sorely missed at too many gatherings."

"You have missed the presence of an old woman past any hope of dazzling, or even entertaining?" Mrs. Herrera did not blush, but when she smiled there was a dimple by her chin that was the mirror of Diana's. "My dear Captain, if you are looking to the dowagers for society, no wonder you have been bored half to death during the season."

Having found himself a safe haven, the Captain took a seat near Mrs. Herrera to pursue his course of agreeable flattery; as he did, Miss Wright entered, followed swiftly by Mr. Banner and two of his sisters, the Miss Corks, and the Ludlows. Sophia could subsume herself in duty once again, the role of gracious hostess one she had been born to play.

Soon their little drawing room was filled to bursting with pleasant duets and trios of conversation, chatter singing like a delicate chorus. Sophia found her feet with Miss Wright and Mr. William Ludlow, with frequent asides to include Mr. Ludlow, Diana, and her persistent shadow, Mr. Cox.

Conversation gave way to dancing; when Sophia could not be persuaded to join Mr. William, he led Miss Jane Cork out on her suggestion. Mr. Cox partnered Diana, and Miss Wright and Sophia were left to their own devices.

Miss Wright watched Diana and Mr. Cox's lively progress across the room with a raised brow.

"I see _that_ is proceeding apace," she murmured into Sophia's ear.

"Only do not ask me what _that_ is," Sophia murmured back.

"He is untitled and only a single generation from trade, but he has no sisters to divide his fortune, as some of Miss Diana's other suitors do. Your sister could make a worse match; indeed, I cannot think of any who might suit her better. The only obstacle would be his mother, who has ambitions. But a mother's objections are soon overcome by a pretty, wealthy woman."

"I shall pass along your compliments," Sophia smiled, "I would agree with you were it not for Diana's indifference. To all her suitors. I cannot find out whom she means to encourage."

"You call _that_ indifference?"

At that instant, Diana's brilliant laugh rose above the joyful violin and ringing pianoforte, setting the top of the dance alight with sparkling humor. Mr. Cox, pleased to see how well his jest had landed, darted close to whisper something else in her ear. Diana allowed it all with seeming ease.

Sophia, though wondering why Diana was allowing such pointed attentions, only shrugged.

"I do. You would as well if you knew her better."

"Then what is she about?"

Sophia sighed. "I do not know. Perhaps it is indelicate of me to say this to you, but you understand disappointment in the steadiness of Englishmen. It could be she means to hedge her bets."

"I believe we are good enough friends to be beyond fears of indelicacy. In fact..." for the first time, Rose hesitated, "I hope you know I would not dare say this to you otherwise."

"Say what?"

Miss Wright's usual expression of wry amusement had vanished. In the absence of her mild smirk, her face seemed sober, older by years.

"Your sister's behavior has exposed her to some unkind talk."

"Talk?" Sophia forced herself to sip punch and fan herself idly. "Surely you do not mean to relate Miss Cork's latest insults and suggest we ought to be concerned?"

"No. This sentiment arises from other circles. I relay it only to caution you. There is a feeling that...that your sister is too obvious in her schemes."

"Is that all?" Sophia cried, "She behaves no differently from any other woman I have seen thus far. No one could fault her manners or her delicacy. Who..." breath died in her throat.

"Forgive me," her friend winced, "I do not mean to distress you."

Sophia resisted the urge to stamp her foot. "I have seen women so forward they drive men away! What can anyone say of my sister? What lies are they telling about her?"

"They tell no lies. But when you say she behaves no differently from any other woman, that is the difficulty. You and your sister...forgive me, but everyone knows your history. Yours, and your father's," Rose pressed her arm, "Anyone who knows you does not think of it, but the fact remains that your position is not like many other women's."

She would not flinch. She _must not._

"Then," Sophia swallowed and it was like drinking crushed glass, "they say these things of Diana—of us—because our father is Spanish."

Miss Wright's eyes gleamed with tears. "They say these things of you because you are not English."


	14. XIV

**Volume II**

**XIV**

Time, the great river, passed in its implacable way, flowing on regardless of whatever insignificant bits of human detritus that might fall into its mighty stream. It swept the old year behind it and floated the world forward into a new one. Whatever Sophia might have hoped for, it brought no influx of renewal to the turgid lake of her thoughts. The world was just as gray, just as cold, just as unwelcoming as it had been the night her foundations had crumbled beneath her, leaving her spiraling in empty space.

Though in Sophia's mind there was now a massive, impassable dam between her reality before their Christmas party and after it, the days varied not a whit in length, shape, or content. They, and perforce she, proceeded as usual.

Yet that dam, so irrelevant to the passage of time, was an obstruction too great for Sophia's mind to leap over. The words "not English" haunted her in a ghastly chorus, chanting a death-knell to any love Sophia might have felt for London or anyone in it. The words tainted each cordial greeting, every pleasant inquiry, and all their amiable new acquaintance. Each look, no matter how kind, was suspect. _Not English, not English._ The words roared in her ears.

It was not the words alone that wreaked such havoc; it was the truth they revealed at last, a truth too twisted and misshapen to comprehend, a truth rooted deep in Sophia's unspoken conception of herself and her sister.

During their happy childhood in Spain, Mrs. Herrera had impressed her daughters with the idea that their English blood elevated them above Spanish society. Their half-sister Maria was irredeemable, as the daughter of a Spaniard and his…well, their mother had never deigned to address the other half of Maria's parentage, not even in passing. Shadows too deep for any light to pierce hung over their half-sister's past. Nor did that matter; Sophia and Diana were to be saved by the blood that flowed from their mother's veins and into their own; they were to be rescued from Spain by an English education and English husbands.

The words "not English" had stolen this promise from them. Their mother's legacy was not enough to save them. All their pretense was for nothing, for in the eyes of London society they were as unworthy to move its rarefied air as Maria was. In truth, there _was_ no salvation for the sisters. If they were tolerated anywhere it was on the strength of their mother's good name and the thirty thousand pounds each sister would inherit upon their marriage—if any could be achieved—to a suitable candidate.

Pure British sterling alone would buy forgiveness for their tainted blood.

Were it only _her_ reputation and future blighted thus, Sophia would not have minded. But Diana…how could she bear to watch her sister, kind as a kitten, secure in her schemes, endure week after week of friendship bereft of real heart? The sisters were welcomed, but not loved.

Miss Rose Wright and Miss Jane Cork were their only true friends, and now Sophia understood precisely why. They too had been rejected by society; they too must seek companionship among its dregs.

Sophia endured, her pride the prop upon which she depended to keep a polite smile on her face and harsh words from her lips. She danced with any who asked, spoke with any group she encountered. All she took for herself was a quiet morning once a week to read Maria's letters and write to her in kind, a morning Diana and Mrs. Herrera had come to understand was an inviolate time, guarded with utmost jealousy. Both had silently agreed to honor Sophia's need, accepting that Sophia would make no calls and receive no guests, were the Prince Regent himself to alight at their door.

On one such morning, Sophia was lounging on a chaise before the fire, slippered feet toasting on the fender. Her head was still heavy from an overindulgence of wine at a dinner engagement the night before, so she read but slowly, the letters of Maria's latest swimming before her drowsy eyes. But she did not need to see the letter to know its contents. She had memorized them long before. It was the one in which Domingo's entreaty had arrived.

Soft footsteps came to the door, muffled by the soft patter of melting frost dripping off the eaves. Nor did Sophia immediately notice the muffled thump of her door opening and closing. She only stirred herself as a cold draught touched her cheek.

Drawing her shawl tighter, she murmured, "Oh Kitty, I wish I had told you I am in no need of tea."

"Good. Neither am I."

Diana dropped her muff on the table next to Sophia's bundle of silk-tied letters; her pelisse followed soon after, sliding to the floor in a slither of wool and ostrich feathers. Sophia's eyes jerked wide, shock making her head ache acutely. Her hand worked quickly, crumpling her letters into a ball that she wedged into the folds of her dress.

"Are you well?" Diana's chin was sunk in the lace ruffles of her collar like the heart of a tight-closed bud, "You told me you would be come until luncheon."

"I reached the end of the street before losing heart. Thomas has my cards and knows where to leave them. I found I could not stand the strain of this morning's visits and thought," she smiled, "that a comfortable coze with you is all I wanted. But I know I intrude; tell me to go and I will."

Sophia smiled, softened out of her irritation despite herself. "To tell the truth, I am glad you returned. My own thoughts…well. They do not bear talking of. I have missed you."

"And I you," Diana sank onto the sofa at the foot of Sophia's bed, kicked off her slippers and extended her stockinged feet to the fire, wiggling her toes luxuriously. With a sigh, she sank further down into the cushions of her chair. "Funny to think we spend all our days together yet have no time to talk. _Really_ talk, that is. As we were used to do."

"Yes. We might have expected it, however. Who ever had a good conversation in a drawing room?"

"Characters in novels always do. Such brilliant displays of fictional wit, flowing out to amaze an astounded crowd! You will laugh, I know, but I imagined society here would be so much more dramatic than it is."

For the first time in days, Sophia found herself laughing, merriment more strengthening than a dozen glasses of wine. "Though I cannot but be glad to find mad relatives, secret identities, passionate _mésalliances_ , and wicked uncles in shorter supply than most novels suggest, I agree with you. It seems we have discussed the same plays, novels, marriages, and scandals at every house for the past ten days at least."

"When Lady Lascelle began speaking of the new staging of _Lovers' Vows_ , I did think I would scream!"

"Yes! And did you hear when she repeated Lady Worthington's criticism on Anhalt's casting—"

"Down to the last word!"

The sisters' giggles would have cheered the most dour hearts; the fit did them both immeasurable good.

Diana reached across the divide to lace her fingers with Sophia's. Her smile wilted wistfully.

"My dearest Sophie, I have missed you. Every day it seems as though you are taking one tiny step back from me. I feel as if I can no longer reach you, or if you were to go much further, that you would no longer even hear me if I called."

Sophia flinched, drawing back as though her sister's soft touch scalded her. She shrugged. "You can always reach me. I am always here."

Diana's hand dropped back to her side, fingers curling inward to her palm, palm resting on her breast. "Are you? Forgive me, but you seem no more reconciled to London than on the day we arrived. When I remember how vital you always were at our parties in Cadiz…you were this radiant figure, suggesting games, planning adventures! I admired you so! But I have not seen a hint of that Sophia in months."

It was impossible to lie when Diana had laid the truth before her so eloquently. Yet she would have sacrificed a good portion of her fortune if she could just hide her pain away for another four months. It was this burial in London that was so eating away at Sophia's self-control. If she could only be free, out in the open country air! She was sure her grim mood would lighten.

Her sister would not have it. "Sophie. Tell me what is wrong."

She could not speak. Her heart was swollen enough to choke; if a single word escaped her, it would be the stream that would burst the dam.

After a deep breath to gather her resolve, Diana whispered, "Captain Mayfair proposed to you, did he not? Is that what troubles you?"

Sophia breathed. It was a coward's retreat, but she took it nonetheless.

"How did you know?"

"He only visits once a week instead of every other day; when we are out, he no longer 'accidentally' intercepts us. Moreover, he has begun speaking to me again _while_ you are in the room. It does not take a seer to interpret these signs."

"I should have known," Sophia sighed, ashamed at her relief in having at least one of her secrets known, "I might have told you at first. But I did not want either you or Mama to be disappointed in me."

"Disappointed? Then, you did not accept him?"

"No. I cannot."

Diana bit her lip. "He is a good man?" she ventured.

"He is," she agreed, "I would not let him come near us if he were not. You chose well, Di, have no fear of that."

"But he still comes to see us. Do you mean to accept him eventually?"

"No," she frowned, stung. "I would not play such a cruel game with _any_ man, let alone a man like the Captain!"

Her anger was not all for Diana. Captain Mayfair's standing proposal was a thorn she could not dislodge; move a certain way and it jabbed at something vital within. Daily she bled from the pain, but what could she do to staunch it? Her refusal had been clear; he persisted at his own risk. Nor could she bar him from what was still a source of mutual solace. They enjoyed each others' company too much to make a clean break.

"I am sorry," Sophia said, eyes dry enough to risk a glance at her sister, "please do not worry. If you hold that grimace long enough, you will have wrinkles. Do not sacrifice your good looks on my account, I implore you. The Captain and I…we understand each other. But there will be no marriage."

"I do not understand," Diana shook her head, brow furrowed still, "Of course, if you did not like him…but you _do._ You are friends, I can tell. Is not friendship the best possible foundation for a marriage, if love be absent?"

The truth pricked at her tongue; it curled in preparation to speak. One secret was out; was this not the time to confess at least part of what weighed on her, to shift her back-breaking burden, if only in some small measure? Sophia's mind whirled, but she knew she could not speak like this, when her thoughts were all in a riot and longing for relief. She was no fit judge of whom she might hurt in seeking it.

Diana was waiting for her answer, silent and sweet; patience shone on her face like a painted Madonna.

"I have not the heart to even _wish_ I could love him," she said at last, "I could not give him mere affection in return for love."

"I still do not understand. You have not the heart? Then…you love another?"

"No," she turned away, blaming the smoky fire for her watering eyes. The wind must have changed. "Not another person, that is."

"Then what?"

"I do not wish to remain in England for the rest of my life," she confessed softly, hoping that _a_ truth would be just shocking enough to satisfy. "Di, I _hate_ it here. The city, its people, its cold, damp air. I had hoped for so much more than I found, certainly not enough to justify leaving a p-place," she stammered, replacing the word at the last moment, "that I truly loved."

Even this tiny chink in the damn allowed a whistling stream to flow, but Sophia did not fear it bursting; as pressure eased, she gave herself up to the flood of relief.

"Do you remember all we used to _do_ at home? How many and different our diversions? Riding, rowing, picnics on the shore, exploring ruins and cathedrals? I was never without a subject to sketch; you wrote pages in your diary every day. London is very fine, but I weary of marble, gilding, varnish, and porcelain. Artifice is part of everything and everybody here; you cannot touch their hearts because they are sealed away under stone."

She paused, marshalling her thoughts. "I want the England we thought we would find, the one of the plays and stories. I hunger for something grand, or at the very least, something _human._ Or _something_ without the same weary stamp of self-satisfied Englishmen!"

Panting and red-cheeked, Sophia's eyes flashed with fury; all tears evaporated in the heat of her frustration. Diana slumped back before the torrent of her words, staring at Sophia as though her sister had torn off a mask and flung it at her feet.

At long last, she nodded.

"I believe you."

"Good," Sophia cried, taken aback. "Did you think I would lie?"

"You _have_ been lying," Diana cocked her head, remonstrative, "Before we left Madrid, you were so composed. Always talking about the sights in England you longed to see. The museums, the castles, the public places. While I cried over our friends you were calm, even to the moment of farewell. I only saw you weep when we parted with Maria on the docks. But you have not been calm at all, have you?"

"No. But it was decided. My tears would not have swayed Papi from his purpose, you know that," she swallowed, "He hated when we cried."

"Nothing would have swayed him," Diana tossed her head, shaking off the idea of their father as a horse's switching tail would shoo away a fly, "When you did not cry, I supposed it meant you did not feel as deeply as I did. But I should have known better. You have always loved Spain more than England, have you not?"

"I have," she spread her hands, helpless, "It is the only home I will ever know."

Diana nodded, frowning. "Papi will not let you return unmarried."

Sophia silently agreed, but she could not so easily proclaim it, "As I grow older and become more of a hazard to your chances, he may not have a choice."

"So no Englishman will tempt you into marriage?"

"None."

Sophia's confession had done what all her silences on the subject had not. Diana seemed not only to understand her iron-bound determination not to marry, but to sympathize with her. The pressure around Sophia's heart was manageable again, and she meant to manage it.

Diana nodded again, lips working as though she were tasting Sophia's resolution on her tongue. At length, she looked up. Her lips' tremulous smile did not reach far enough to warm her eyes, but it was enough to comfort Sophia's exposed, shivering soul.

"I will help you, Sophie. Papi will not keep you here to be miserable."

It was a simple pledge, framed in simple words. Yet no one who saw Diana's set jaw and diamond-bright eyes would have doubted its sincerity.

Sophia met Diana's outstretched hand without reservation; their fingers knotted so tightly she could not tell where hers ended and Diana's began.


	15. XV

**XV**

"Oh my dears, I thought we should never arrive! The roads are atrocious!"

With a flurry of heavy skirts and a whirlwind flutter of muffs and scarves, the Banner sisters stormed into the morning room, their gay, inconsequential brother drifting along behind. Outside the frost-crusted windows, the streets shone bone-white as a phantom, lying still beneath a shroud of ever-falling snow. The Banner's carriage wheels had torn two rents in that pure blanket, driving through to ice-bitten cobbles beneath. Those scars were not enough to disrupt the day's beauty, however. Gusting winds made gossamer fans of powdery snow dance through the air and catch the striving sunlight.

Sophia had already reluctantly turned from the view that so enchanted her—snow being a precious rarity in Spain—to welcome their guests, kissing the sisters and smiling upon the brother. Her gesture was wasted upon the latter, as he was already ensconced with Diana, paying homage to her in the great chair from which she decreed the terms of their party.

'Party' was a grandiose title, undeserved by the simple affair they had cobbled together to spite London's fickle weather making hay of their evening engagements. Once it became clear that the snow had no intention of ceasing, a small army of footman had begun a round of duty calls, marching from house to house carrying notes of new invitations. Sophia had suggested cards and tea, and Diana, after considering the guest list, had given the plan her seal of approval.

The younger Banner girls seemed amazed at their own audacity in defying the storm.

"When your kind note arrived, Mama absolutely declared we should not have the carriage! She was full of fears of overturning on a patch of ice and us freezing stone dead! Of course, James talked her around; he always does. But _I_ say," Miss Regina Banner gushed, "if we should end by being marooned here together, what fun it will be!"

Jane Cork was next to ring the bell, accompanied from her carriage door by Captain Mayfair, himself just arrived on foot.

"Is not Mr. Cox joining us?" he asked Sophia, _sotto voce_ , shedding his greatcoat into the arms of an over-burdened maid. "I should have thought he would be first in any party that included your sister."

"He gave no reply to our invitation," Sophia murmured in reply. Diana gave no sign of hearing them, but her placid smile had taken on a harsh edge now that everyone _but_ the man in question had arrived. "I have not seen him this past week at least, though Diana visited his sisters only yesterday and saw him then. She said he seemed in spirits."

"Hmm. And what of your particular friend, Miss Wright?"

"She has been claimed by one of her sisters to help with a newly-arrived nephew, I believe. The details rather escape me at times, and her note was none too particular. Rose has so many sisters that it seems I never hear of them without immediate talk of either confinement or birth. Perhaps the details escape her occasionally as well."

He laughed. "Then her sisters are fortunate that they have a girl as obliging as Miss Wright to assist them."

Patience being one of her friend's virtues rather more from necessity than nature, it was with a wry smile that Sophia agreed, "She _is_ wonderfully patient. More so than I should be in her situation. I suppose I am fortunate to have only two sisters who may in future make such demands of me."

A beat of stilted silence greeted her flippant declaration, and Sophia bit her tongue. To speak of children before the Captain, to draw so near as to involve herself, all for the purpose of a foolish joke! She was humiliated by her gracelessness. She ought to have turned the subject the moment it arose.

Thankfully, Captain Mayfair was too gracious to be long embarrassed. "Shall we sit?"

Nodding, Sophia led him to her favorite chair, set into the deep recess before the window, heedless of the seeping cold that oozed through the windowpanes. True to his profession, the Captain seemed not to feel uncomfortable in any weather, while Sophia was cozy in a dress and shawl the same deep red as overripe cherries in the heart of summer. She was thankful for the chill; it cooled the roses on her cheeks.

For a moment, they observed the wintry scene outside in companionable silence.

"It does not often snow in Cadiz, does it?"

"No," she shook her head, "I can only recall a few instances when it did. Once in particular…the snow was above our ankles. It was such a novel experience that the whole city had a kind of public holiday. My sister and I spent the day wandering through the streets, absolutely charmed," a smile bloomed on her face, "Some of the rougher boys took to throwing snowballs, trying to knock off gentlemen's hats. Their aim was exceptional."

"Diana no longer seems to care for the snow."

"Diana was too young at the time," she corrected him, "I speak of my older sister, Maria."

"Ah. I understand, then. Then Diana has a proper Englishwoman's sense of snow as a nuisance, an unwelcome reminder that the English cannot control all the world. Bad weather is an affront to our sense of the order of things."

"You are uncommonly bitter today, Captain! Surely a representative of the great English navy should not speak so."

"Forgive me, you are right. Perhaps I am only out of sorts because I have been called to leave in that very navy."

"Oh!" her cry was too loud; curious heads swiveled in their direction. "I am sorry to hear it."

And she was; there was a sudden hollow ache in the area of her ribs that made fetching breath a difficult task.

"When must you go?"

"I am bidden to report on Saturday next."

"Then you will not even be at the Wilson's ball," Sophia hesitated; what would he think of her frivolity? "It may be foolish of me but…I will miss the chance of dancing with you there."

His jaw tightened and there was a sudden, restless twitch in his fingers. Sophia fixed her eyes there rather than at his focused gaze.

"It grieves me as well. The only solace I take is in knowing the cause I am called to serve is a worthy one."

"Are you not sent back to the East Indies, or the Colonies? It is only that the papers speak daily of the possibility of another war with the Americans."

"I have no doubt that war is to come, but I have had my fill of it."

"Have you? War made your fortune, did it not?"

His hands tightened into fists. "It did. Were I a better man I should take that fortune and throw it into the sea from whence it came. When I enlisted, I was a callow boy who thought only of the glory of serving the empire. By the time I understood the true nature and cost of war, I was calloused enough to think that I might as well keep it as the fair cost of my soul."

Sophia looked up though the look of twisted self-recrimination on the Captain's face was painful to behold.

"Forgive me," she said, risking a quick press of his hand with her own. Drawing back, she knotted her fingers together in her skirt, "I had no intention of—I seem to be saying everything wrong."

She forced herself to be silent, though words pressed at her lips, begging for liberty. Unfortunately, all she had were sentiments jumbled about by confused feelings; if she spoke, thoughts would tumble over one another with neither clarity nor grace.

Captain Mayfair nodded; his mouth worked in harsh spasms. When he did not speak again, Sophia bestirred herself.

"Where will you go?"

"On the _Loyalty_ , with the West African Squadron. I petitioned for a post with the fleet when it was first established in '09, but only two ships were tasked to it at first, and with little experience, I was not chosen."

Her lips and fingers went curiously numb. When she replied, it was with amazement that her words emerged in anything like her normal tone. "I read that Parliament had recently approved more funds to the cause. Captain, I confess myself," she paused, shifting nervously in an attempt at composure, "I hardly know _what_ to confess myself. We have spoken on so many subjects, these past months. We have been constant companions, yet I feel I have not known you until today. To volunteer for an assignment hunting slave ships…you are an abolitionist, then?"

"Not always. My father was a conscientious clergyman; _he_ was a member of too many societies to count. I was often ashamed of his outspoken efforts; ashamed, that is, until I left England and learned that men are men, no matter their country or color. Unfortunately," he swallowed, "my father died before I could confess my error."

The Captain's brow knitted in lines of fury and loathing. Sophia knew that look; it was mingled anger at his own ignorance and hatred for a world that could tolerate such loathsome crimes. She longed to reach for him, but she was afraid that if she did, she would snap the thin cord of self-control tying him together. A pleasant morning-party was no place for a scene.

Moreover, she felt an icy shiver at her own danger. Never before had anyone in London so closely approached anything so near Sophia's heart. What if he guessed the concealed truths that informed her keen sympathy? What if he guessed, and did not understand? What if he guessed, and informed others? The Herreras had thus far survived being half-Spanish heiresses of a trade empire.

No one knew—nor yet cared— _what_ trade it was their father, and by extension their entire family, had profited from.

A burst of laughter from the rest of the room obtruded, discordant and jarring. Sophia flinched and sat back; the Captain's ferocious grimace smoothed away. They both of them remembered who they were, where they were, and what behavior was expected of them.

Simply then, he concluded. "Slavery has always been immoral; now that it is illegal as well, I intend to ensure that no man profits from it again."

"I honor you," she whispered, throat too sore with tears for more, "I will pray for your safety. And your success."

"Thank you," he bowed.

All of a sudden, Sophia realized how close they were sitting. The sofa was small, meant to fit into a window's alcove; their knees pressed together, her skirt overlapping them both in a crimson wave. Her hands, still white-knuckled and knotted together, were but inches from his broad, weathered palms. The urge to touch him possessed her again. It would not be wrong, would it, to offer such a simple sign of friendship?

"Sophia, Captain, come and join us," Diana cried, her bright voice shattering their intimate spell. A deck of cards fanned between her fingers. "Speculation is no fun with so few players."

"Pray, enjoy yourself," she motioned to the Captain, "I should see to my mother."

Without heeding another voice, Sophia darted from the room, hiding in the shadow of the staircase until her heart stopped fluttering about her chest like a frightened bird.

* * *

"You were very quiet today," Diana remarked, eyes on her spoon as she dipped up some soup.

Sophia did not reply. Her whole mind was still revolving upon the Captain's revelation and how uncomfortably it rested with truths Sophia did not care to admit even to herself. Her stomach was a writhing pit of snakes; it was all she could do to take one bite after another and bless the fact that Mrs. Herrera had been asleep since before sunset. Withstanding Diana's curiosity was a trial she already feared her ability to endure.

Diana tossed down her spoon; it squealed against the porcelain and a splatter of broth stained the tablecloth.

She looked up, flinching. It was unlike Diana to be so careless. But she soon saw there was good cause. Her sister's face was drawn and waxen; a shimmer of sweat made her glow like a china doll in the candlelight. Some great strain was weighing on her sister; a strain she had pushed herself too hard for too long to carry a moment longer.

"I ask very little from you," each word was mechanically formed, clipped and even, "But if I cannot rely on you to help entertain a bare few of our closest friends, then—"

One tear flashed, then another.

Sophia was up and around the table before a third had opportunity to fall.

"Di, dearest Di," her sister would not be drawn into a hug; she barely allowed Sophia to rest her cheek against her shoulder, "I am sorry. You are right; I have been a selfish beast. I was only distressed by some news of the Captain's, but I should not have let it overpower me. It was certainly no excuse for abandoning you. Can I beg your forgiveness?"

"I do not want you to _beg_. I only want…I know you do not wish to be married. I have not judged you for it since the day you told me. But Sophie, I _do_ wish it for myself," raw longing gave her a cloying strength. Sophia's hands were soon clutched so her bones ached, "Will you not help me?"

"Of course," she promised, raining kisses on Diana's brow. "Forgive me, I am truly sorry. From today, I am entirely at your service. Every man you wish invited, every sister you wish befriended, every rival you wish distracted, you may depend upon me."

Sophia's dramatic pledges would once have struck a smile even in the depths of a violent weeping fit. They did not do so now.

"Diana, what is it?" She spoke to her sister's bowed head, "Something else is troubling you."

"Mr. Cox did not come."

"No," she agreed, puzzled, "Nor was there a note from him; I asked Lucy if any had come. You expected him, then?"

The word fell like a stone from her listless lips. "No. I had hoped for him, that is all. I…he walked me a ways after I called on his sister, the day before last."

_This_ was news indeed. "Oh. We should have seen him tonight, would we not, if the Driscoll's party had not been postponed? Did he give you any reason to think he would not be there?"

"He did," she admitted, slowly, "But he told me it was against his will…even as he said he could not ruin his mother's hopes for him."

It took a moment, but Sophia assembled these disparate pieces. Miss Wright's knowledge of Mr. Cox's financial history made Diana's disappointment quite clear.

"His parents have greater designs for him than—"

"Than a half-breed. Even a half-breed heiress."

Sophia dropped, nerveless, into the chair beside her sister's. Gasping, she cried, "He did not say such a thing to you!"

"He did not have to. I have said it to myself often enough. As have others. I did not wish to tell you…I knew it would pain you."

"Oh, God," sitting was impossible. Pacing the narrow confines of the parlor in which their simple dinner was spread, Sophia felt like a caged beast. She tore at her hair in impotent rage. She had never dropped a hint of this, had never breathed a syllable, yet it did not matter! Her silence had not protected her sister, any more than Diana's had protected her. They were a pair of fools, the two of them. Vicious truth, with its sharp teeth, could not be denied. It had caught them both at last.

"This cannot surprise you, Sophia. You were always more honest about our potential reception in London than I. You were more cautious even than Mama. It was my own fault that I did not believe you. I did not wish to think people could be so cruel."

It was Diana's matter-of-fact tone, drenched though it was with a sog of fresh-fallen tears, that truly broke Sophia's heart.

As though soothing a child in fever, Sophia stroked her sister's back and forehead with cold, unsteady hands. "Can," she shook her head, swallowed, "Can I do anything for you? Anything—anything at all to help make this better?"

"No," a pause, "but you need not worry. I have only had a shock; a painful shock. But it will fade."

Diana smiled then, smiled so that tears ran into the ragged seam of her lips.

"I will be better soon."


	16. XVI

**XVI**

The following Friday, the day before he was called to leave for Portsmouth and his post upon the _Loyalty_ , Captain Mayfair's older brother and sister-in-law most graciously hosted a farewell party in their respectable London townhouse on Elm Street. It was, Sophia reflected with surprise, the first time she or her sister had met either of the Captain's closest relatives. But after he presented them to each other, Sophia quickly understood why that was so.

Charlotte Mayfair was a rounded matronly woman, fluffed out in brown and cold like a plump wren nestled complacently in her feathers. Sweet and sensible in conversation, she had little to offer them besides a vague regret that they had not met sooner, as her brother-in-law had often mentioned how charming the Herrera sisters were. In all fairness, her conversation was necessarily curtailed by the presence of three of her children gamboling about her skirts, so that half her attention was taken up with their tricks and nonsense.

As for the Captain's older brother, Mr. Donald Mayfair, beneficiary of their late father's fortune and Newcastle family seat, there was a little more to say. At first, Sophia was willing to extend him some credit for being an older brother who took pride in having an occupation also. However, he was a clergyman of the worst type, all rigid righteousness and sanctimonious starch. From his arch manner and frequent aloof silences, it was clear he considered himself above the society in which his younger brother took pleasure.

Sophia tried not to be personally offended by his insensitivity to her charms, reasoning that though the brothers might share their defined features, what good were looks when there was no spirit to animate them? The Captain had clearly inherited whatever vigor was to be had from such a sedate family tree.

The party was little enlarged beyond the family circle, offering a scant selection of their mutual London acquaintance, a dash of Mr. and Mrs. Mayfair's friends, and a scattering of naval officers. There was some opportunity for Sophia and Diana to ply their charms on a variety of new acquaintance, but Sophia soon found herself missing the guest of honor, who had disappeared after introducing them to his relatives.

Captain Mayfair stood alone, shielded from view by the heavy fireplace mantle, untroubled by the gentle currents of conversation swirling around him. He was so absent that he did not even notice Sophia at his elbow until she spoke.

"You do not seem to be enjoying your party," she teased, offering him a cup of punch, "Perhaps you are too focused on what the morrow will bring?"

"I am," he agreed, accepting her offering with a bow but soon placing it on a table untasted, "It is a task I have long desired to undertake; I am only wishing for my father's counsel."

"Oh," she murmured, "I am sorry you are missing him, but I am certain he would be proud of you for volunteering in such a worthy cause."

"I believe he would," he nodded, "But this abstraction is not polite, is it? Have you come to shame me for my inexcusable laziness, or to remind me that my guests are neglected and annoyed?"

"By no means. I am sure you know your duty on occasions like these, just as I am sure your guests understand your preoccupation. At many points in your career, you have, no doubt, attended many such parties as this. I only came to wish you farewell before the general chorus drowned my voice. I will," she lowered her voice until it was barely audible above the fire's crackle, "pray for your safety daily."

He bowed. "Better to pray for my success. Slavery is a blight on the civilized world which must be erased, no matter the cost to any individual. I do not intend to spare myself or my crew in this endeavor."

Sophia's polite rejoinder dried up on her tongue. Had she sufficient courage, courage enough to throw aside her pride and discard her reputation, she would have thanked him on bended knee. Thanked him for his honor in attempting to set right so many crimes, crimes she had been firsthand witness to and beneficiary of.

As an ignorant child, she had seen bodies paraded through her father's warehouses, portioned out by pounds of flesh and strength of muscle, and the sight then had been enough to fill her with cold horror. It was not until years had passed that Sophia had realized that the poor souls she had seen auctioned away were just the survivors; countless unseen men and women died during the passage overseas, their bodies thrown overboard worthless as night soil, tossed away before their rot could sicken what remained of the cargo.

As a maturing young woman, the knowledge that slavery was the poisoned wellspring from which her father—and by extension, she herself—drew all their wealth, continued to sicken her. Secretly, she had begun to give a portion of her allowance to abolitionist societies, careful to keep anonymity as a screen to protect her from Mr. Herrera's violent retaliation.

But risking her father's displeasure to spite his trade was not enough to scrub shame from her soul. Blood seeped from every seam of every dress she wore, tears sparkled in the jewels hanging from her ears, and human misery had gilded everything she touched with luxury and ease.

If only she had a fraction of the Captain's courage! If she had, perhaps she could at last acknowledge that her own _sister_ , her dear Maria, was—

These things she could not say. These things perhaps she could never say.

"I honor you beyond expression," she did not even take his hand.

"Thank you," he took hers instead, bending low over it. His breath was pleasantly warm where it ghosted over her fingers. "Your esteem means more to me than any other's. If you had said…but I knew that in this matter, your thoughts must be in perfect accord with mine."

Acknowledging such a compliment would put them on dangerous ground.

Instead, Sophia drew back hand, deflecting his sincerity with levity. "Now I _shall_ remind you of your duty. I heard your brother threaten a speech earlier; you ought to head him off."

"Thank you," he groaned, "What shall I do without you?"

He paused. What had clearly been intended as a jest rang instead with unintended sincerity.

Sophia forestalled anything further. "Go," she urged, waiting until he was safely occupied in chat to close her fingers around where the heat of his palm had pressed hers.

* * *

"If the Captain retreats another inch between his shoulders," she heard Diana remark to Mr. Evans, who sat between them at dinner, "he will become a turtle altogether."

"I have known him since he was a lieutenant," he replied, "A bolder man of action you will never meet, but for all that boldness he hates being the center of attention."

"He is humble," Sophia chimed in, falling in with their conversation, "Would not you be, if spoken of in such florid terms?"

A retired captain, buttons straining to contain the inflated bellows of his stomach, was pontificating on Captain Mayfair's upstanding character in the cesspool of nepotism and decay that the great Royal Navy had become since the days of his own service. This subject was so near to his heart that it required the good captain note merely to describe his protégé's career, but his own as well, in minute detail.

Respect and good-breading alone could keep the various private conversations about the table inaudible to Captain Crawley's sagging ears.

At last, the gentleman heaved a gusty sigh and brooded over his raised glass of port. Everyone's attention revived; surely now he must have done!

"Now," relief disappeared like smoke from a chimney, "I cannot pretend to understand what venture Richard's embarking upon now. In my time we protected a private tradesman's goods; kept him safe from pirates and privateers and the like. I do not pretend to understand that what was legal then has become illegal now. But Richard's a good man, and an order is an order. If the Navy wants to waste a skilled commander in this damn-fool escapade of hunting down slave-ships, well, it is one more sign of the wrongheaded idiocy that—"

Mr. Mayfair remonstrated quietly against such language being used in the presence of ladies, but it was too late; Captain Crawley was well and truly launched back into his previous diatribe. This ruckus allowed Sophia enough safety to risk one swift sideways glance at Diana. She was composed, if a bit pale. Her hand was even steady on her glass, though she did not seem to notice it was empty before bringing it to her lips.

Sophia was reassured that her warnings regarding Captain Mayfair's endeavor had been well-heeded and that her sister was in no danger of losing her composure. If only she herself were so secure!

Captain Mayfair stood then.

"I thank you, sir," he said, clapping his former mentor heartily on his shoulder, "A more passionate man I have never known. But I fear we are boring the ladies with so much talk of naval politics."

"The ladies," he huffed into his beard, "Quite, quite. Forgive me. An old salt like me, madam," he bowed to Mrs. Mayfair, "You must pardon me."

"Oh no, sir," Mrs. Mayfair's eyebrows raised at the mere shadow of approaching incivility, "It is quite understandable. And very interesting, I am sure. But I believe we would be more comfortable in the drawing-room. If you would follow me, please."

They rose, Diana leaning heavily on Sophia's arm as they passed from the room. She would fain have had someone to support _her_ as well; her knees trembled. They were both grateful that their control was not to be longer tested; Mrs. Mayfair's polished gentility would not permit any discussion of what had just passed. As if a curtain had fallen between the ladies and the lingering specter of unpleasantness behind, she invited them to view an album of watercolors she had painted on a sightseeing tour of Scotland.

Under cover of scattered accounts of highlands, moors, lairds, and castles, the sisters had room to marshal their spirits.

"I saw you talking to the Captain earlier," Diana whispered, behind her fan, "You said nothing to him?"

"Do me the credit of remembering that _I_ told _you_ of his assignment and sentiments. I am as aware as you that our family situation is not one that could be easily discussed in polite society."

Diana fixed her with a weary look. "I know you, Sophie. Moreover, I know how you feel about Captain Mayfair."

Under the pretext of examining an arrangement of hothouse orchids on the next table, Sophia dragged her sister well out of earshot.

"How many times must I insist were are only friends?" she hissed, "Since the day he spoke, not a single word has passed between us about—"

"Did I say any had? He _is_ your friend, _that_ is why I am concerned. Nor am I wrong to be, I am sure, given your feelings on the subject."

"I have no intention of discussing my feelings here," Sophia frowned, fiercely, "Only suffice it to say that I know enough not to raise the subject of our father's trade, _especially_ when doing so would be the ruination of our futures. Lest you forget, I was out three years before you were; I know what I am about!"

Diana scowled; Sophia matched her ferocity. They parted in mutual frustration, speaking not another word to one another until the time came to bid their hostess adieu. Nor did Diana break her silence until they were safely locked in their carriage, their faces illuminated only by the milky glow drizzling through the curtains from a distant, yellowed moon.

"Does it truly bother you so?"

No need to guess at the meaning of 'it'.

"Yes," Sophia said, "You know it does."

"Captain Crowley may have been a pompous windbag, but he was not wrong when he said that it _was_ once a legal trade. Our father has no call to be any more ashamed than any other businessman."

"Does he not?" she shivered, wrapping her shawl tightly about her. Whether it was the bitter winter air or her sister's chill indifference that froze her, she could not say. "Di, I have no desire to discuss this. You know my feelings; I know yours. Let us leave it there."

"Well," Diana wrapped herself up likewise and turned towards the window, "we got through it, at least. Tomorrow he will be gone. I hope you will put Mama's mind at ease tomorrow morning. Regina has asked me to call on her early, so I plan to be awake and away right after breakfast."

"You do not wish me to wait for you?"

"By no means," she yawned, "I do not know how long I shall be."

With that, she sat back and closed her eyes as her smile gleamed in the moonlight, catlike and contented. Diana, ever the opportunist, had no time to consider the past when she could ruminate on the future.

Sophia closed her eyes likewise, but it was with no expectation of any such pleasure. Her thoughts were tangled in a knot of unruly threads that she saw no hope of untangling without setting upon them with a pair of shears. At the heart of this thicket was Captain Mayfair, whom she had neither heart nor strength to cut away.

Sighing silently, Sophia resigned herself to yet another unsettled night trapped in the morass of her mind.


	17. XVII

**XVII**

Sophia knew it would be dangerous to permit herself to feel Captain Mayfair's absence too strongly in the following days, so the very morning after the party she resolved to wake at her normal hour and do all the tasks which normally fell within her compass. These being accomplished—namely breakfasting and apprising her mother of the party's notable events—she attempted the Herculean burden of addressing her long-overdue correspondence.

This, however, was too much to ask a mind recently bereaved, so Sophia drifted instead to a novel long-postponed, trying to lose her sorrow inside its pages rather than letting sorrow congeal in her mind. Her attempt being successful, insofar as she had to read each page only twice to fully absorb its meaning, it was with some surprise that she greeted Diana's arrival in the morning room, having not been aware that her sister had been gone from the house at all.

"You _did_ tell me you would be visiting the Banner's this morning," she murmured, before glancing at the clock in surprise, "Did you not say your visit would be only a quarter-hour? I went to Mama this morning without you to tell her about the Mayfair's party—leaving aside all on the subject that might distress her—but we breakfasted a half-hour ago. Had you so much to discuss with Regina?"

"My visit took longer than I expected. There were so many things to settle; I was not prepared."

Diana's voice was soft, vague, a sleepwalker's murmur. She did not so much sit upon the sofa as find herself in it, as though her legs had given way beneath her.

Stupefied, Sophia pursued her. "Are you well?"

"Oh! Yes. Indeed."

"Well?"

"What?"

"Why were you at the Banner's for nearly an hour?"

"Oh. Was I so long?"

"Diana," Sophia snapped her book shut, beginning to be quite alarmed, "I have had enough to worry about this morning. Please do not add to my troubles. What happened? Surely you were only there to talk over your planned charade with Regina for their party tomorrow night?"

"I thought I had been. Then Regina was not yet down, though we had planned to meet so early. I was asked to wait."

She paused again, worrying her lip with nibbling white teeth. Sophia waited until the sight made her drum her fingers against the spine of her book.

"And?"

"Oh. Well, Regina was not down, but her brother was. He was waiting in the parlor when I arrived, in fact. Mr. Banner insisted upon keeping me company. He was glad to see me after so long; at first I was pleased to see him as well. But then he was very…very insistent. He gave me no time to think."

Sophia gasped. "You mean he proposed?"

"He did."

Such a confession, to fall so simple and plain from lips that scarce moved! Sophia did not know whether to congratulate or condone, nor did her sister's manner indicate which reaction would be preferred; Diana seemed more stunned than anything else.

After a puzzled pause, Sophia slid onto the sofa beside her sister. When Diana did not flinch, she put an arm about her shoulders. So near, she could feel Diana's frame slender frame shaking like a sapling in a storm.

Whether this was from joy or terror, she could not say. Slowly, she began, "I am glad at least he shows his good taste. He was so long about it I was beginning to worry. What did you say?"

"Please, do not ask me—" Diana threw off Sophia's arm and stood, turning to pace but abandoning the action as she abandoned the rest of her sentence. "I do not know."

"I beg your pardon, only I am confused. I thought…you do _like_ him, surely?" She paused, remembering Diana's reaction to her own proposal. A wave of dizziness swept her into a bewildering memory, but at least Diana did not seem to feel it. She had confusion of her own to muddle through.

"I thought I did," she replied, twisting her handkerchief into a serious of tiny knots, "It is only…I cannot tell you. The way he _spoke_ to me."

"He did not," suspicious horror stopped her tongue, "He did not mention our father? Or—"

"No. Nothing like that. It was only that he seemed to think of our marriage as—as more of a business negotiation than an affair of the heart. It was all settlements and inheritances and," she shook her head and raised her knotted handkerchief to her eyes, "the kind of _carriage_ we might afford to keep! No, I am unjust. It is not as though he did _not_ speak of his heart. He certainly spoke enough of its vicissitudes enough to weary. But there was something else, too. Some note that should not have been there, among his passions. Perhaps it was that _I_ was not the only object of his passions. That _carriage_ …"

Sophia nodded. Despite Diana's pragmatic streak, she enjoyed romance too much to allow it to share a stage with any other concerns, certainly not at the moment of proposal, when romance ought to be at its fullest bloom. Now the mystery was becoming clear.

"I am sorry," she said, folding her hands tightly so they had something to do, "Perhaps—and I do not mean to suggest you invited such talk—but perhaps he only felt himself secure in using such terms because you have spoken to him in the past of your thoughts regarding marriage? Or your intentions regarding himself?"

"No matter how I may have spoken, it was indelicate of him to do the same," Diana whirled, fists clenched. Her stormy anger told Sophia that her aim may have struck true. "How could you think it of me? Why should I have ever invited such talk? Do you think I speak to everyone as I speak to you and Mama?"

"No, of course not. Forgive me. I am only trying to understand; to help you, if I can. As you were once so kind as to help me."

"You could help me by leaving me be. Leave me alone to think in peace. Is that too great a request to grant?"

Sophia reined in her natural impulse to defend herself. Diana had obviously had a difficult time getting free of Mr. Banner, yet here she was pressing her sister for a reply she was not ready to give! Patience was not one of her strongest virtues, but she had enough for this occasion.

"I will ask you no more questions," she said, gently, bowing her head under her sister's reproach, "If there is anything I may do for you, you have only to ask it. If you wish to talk, I will hear anything you have to say. With or without questions, as you prefer."

At this little tease, Diana seemed to throw off some of her hostility. Which was fortunate, as Grace took that moment to interrupt them with the morning post. Sophia accepted her letters with trepidation, noticing that Grace had kindly placed Maria's atop all the others. Its weight and thickness informed her at a glance that a sealed message from Domingo was waiting inside. Though Diana's focus was nowhere near Sophia's letters, she still forced herself to peruse each envelope in turn before placing the stack beside her, artfully haphazard, on the side table.

When the maid had curtsied and gone, Diana sank wearily down onto the sofa.

"Thank you," she pressed Sophia's hand, "But I do not know when you may expect a full confession from me."

"In your own good time," Sophia assured her. Then, reaching for humor to dispel what remained of their shadows, she added, "Still, two proposals for the pair of us seems a good haul for a single season, does it not?'

It was precisely the wrong thing to say.

" _Oh_ ," Diana sprang upright, bright spots flushing her cheeks like autumn apples. With a glare, she stomped from the room.

Sophia sighed. The morning was ruined, and she had had as much a hand in destroying its tranquil peace as her sister. Alone with only her book for company, she tossed it aside and followed Diana's fluttering hem upstairs. If her mood was already terrible, surely reading Maria's latest could do her no greater harm?

Safely in her room, Sophia unfolded the letter, hesitating between her sister's missive and her lover's. Was it guilt that chilled her heart as she broke the seal on Domingo's first? And if so, guilt regarding whom? The Captain was gone, they were _both_ gone. Neither could judge her for anything she chose to do.

Much as it pained her to admit, Domingo's letters were fragile connections holding her to a world left behind. When everything else in Sophia's life seemed uncertain, wearying, or elusive, _his_ letters and fearless phrases were her anchor. He wrote in Spanish only, in strong, robust writing that pressed deep into the paper, an impression both sincere and romantic. Just seeing his hand brought to mind everything she loved about his character.

Boldly then, she read on.

_My darling Sophia,_

_I make your sister tell me how you do in London whenever we meet, but she cannot satisfy me in every detail. My imagination must supply the rest. She tells me you dance often, entertain frequently, go to the theater and the opera. This is all. So I must think about how you look—queenly, enchanted, mistress of yourself wherever you go—and it is I who must torture myself with the thought of how you must be loved. As I love you; as all who meet you must love you._

_Maria has passed along your messages to me as well. She tells me you wish for my marriage. Sophia, brightest star of my sky, I know the steadfast brilliance of your love. How could I cast that aside to pursue some lesser celestial?_ You _would never forget me; this I know, whatever lies you bid Maria to tell. That your father sent you to London to marry would never sway you. How then do you think so meanly of me, to believe I could do any less? Until my last breath,_ you _shall be my wife. The only woman I have ever and will ever take as my own._

Sophia's breath caught in her throat. Shameful as it was to admit, her eyes lingered so long on that final, beautiful line that she could trace each stroke of every letter on the backs of her closed lids. It was pure indulgence; foolish, dangerous. She ought not put so much faith in such high-flown expressions, not when a man as charming and vigorous as Domingo wrote them, but good sense could only offer her so many cautions before repetition rendered them stale.

Nor could caution keep her from wishing so hard she ached.

Sighing, she turned the page.

_Forgive me; I know that hearing this will cause you pain. You would not think of me as pining for you as a dog languishes after its master when he is gone. But how can I do otherwise, knowing your own faithfulness? You are not alone in loneliness and agony. I am with you in these as I am with you in all things._

_But I will say no more on this subject, for I have more news to tell. News that, while difficult to hear, may bring happiness to us both._

_I must again ask your pardon. What I tell you will be painful in the extreme. But if I am right, then we need no longer fear your father's influence over your lives. Yet if I could, I would spare you this. I have kept silent for many months now, considering what to do. But now I know that I must speak, both for your safe and mine._

_I believe your father is not only dishonorable and a hypocrite, but also a criminal._

_My suspicions have not been the work of a day. Despite serving as one of his warehouse managers and being directly responsible for overseeing a great portion of his income, Mr. Herrera has done his best to keep me from examining his accounts too closely. Moreover, since you left for London my role in his enterprises has been greatly diminished. There is a parade of new faces here, toadies, men like Mateo who will do all he is told without question, so long as his palm is well-greased._

_As you know, Mr. Herrera's interests were severely damaged when the law to abolish slavery was passed last year. It left a significant gap in his resources just when he needed ready money the most, preparing to send you to England. Yet preparations for your trip proceeded in as lavish a style as he wished. Despite outward compliance with the law against slaving, I can detect no sign that his income has really suffered for it._

_At first I suspected he had opened fresh lines of credit, but there is no sign of that either. He guards his books well, but he cannot guard the mouths of all who work for him. I have heard from more than one source that though slaves no longer pass through is warehouses here in Cadiz, they continue to form the bulk of his cargoes on several vessels._

_Slavery is still tacitly permitted in the Colonies and the demand for slaves is as high as ever; if your father is taking his wares to Cuba, no one would have cause for complaint. Yet 'permitted' is not 'legal'; with sufficient proof, we could make a case against his industry. After all, he obtains these wares from Africa, and such is certainly no longer legal._

_If convicted, this crime would topple his empire. He would have no dominion over my career or prospects; we would have no cause to fear him._

_I know your feelings on slavery as I know your love for your father. Material concerns would not influence you, but I must remember that your fortune is also at risk. I cannot counsel you how to act. Until you ask it of me, I shall make no further inquiries. Perhaps it is wrong of me to lay this responsibility at your door. Perhaps I should take action and trust you to weather the consequences. But I am a faithful dog. I cannot act unless you give me a command._

_Pass word through Maria when you are ready. I shall wait._

_Yours, eternally._

Sophia leaned back, letter fluttering to her lap like a wounded bird as her limp hand gave way.

Her thoughts moved sluggishly, in fits and starts. So avidly had she read the letter that the words were jumbled and uncertain. Slowly, fearing her eyes were misleading her mind, she read it again. And again. It was only after many repetitions that she could even begin to overcome the horror of it to consider what she might do.

Her father, a criminal! Pursuing his wicked industry in defiance of not only God's law, but man's! Sophia had salved her own feelings by supporting slavery's end, trying to ignore that her own flesh was fighting tooth-and-nail to prolong it. She had rationalized conflicting impulses by telling herself that her father viewed slaves as a cargo, as any bale of silk or bunch of spices.

Yes, he was wrong to think so, but Sophia comforted herself by thinking that one day he and the world at large would know it.

But now that excuse was just so many ashes. He knew! The world knew! Yet he persisted!

It might not be true, she told herself, the words forming breathless on her dry lips. It might not be true. The accusation might just be Domingo's fantasy, where he could play the hero and free his princess from the clutches of a vicious dragon, sweeping her back to him after some grand, climactic battle.

Still, it _might_ be true. If it were, dear merciful God! What would not be destroyed when it all came out? Her fortune and her sister's were the least of her worries. With their reputations aflame, no one would risk taking Diana to wife. Their mother would be condemned to a widowhood of shameful penury. And she herself…could she return to the man who had done it all, ruined _everything_ , for love of her?

Domingo had done the just thing in asking her to make a decision in this matter, but for a moment, she wished he had just done as he thought he must without asking her permission. As it was, it was she who must either allow a crime to go forward, or light the match on the gunpowder keg on which they all danced. She was inextricably complicit.

Therefore she must make some reply to this letter, but how could she? How _should_ she?

One by one, Sophia carefully stacked all arguments against acting. When assembled, they formed a wall so high and broad she could see no sense in trying to topple it.

Still, a thought nagged. A thought that she had not articulated, yet one whose truth she felt down to her bones.

_Slavery is a blight on the civilized world. It must be erased, no matter the cost to any individual._

The wall toppled. Captain Mayfair must be fair embarked by now. The road to Portsmouth was not long; the weather that day had been fair. He must be sailing west, out of the Channel by now.

Sophia wished he were not. She had lacked the courage to tell him the truth and ask his counsel. Now, if by some miracle he might appear before her, she knew she could find the strength. Her own was not equal to this task.

He would judge her for her weakness; he would be right to. But he would also provide the clarity her bewildered heart needed; her shame would be a fair sacrifice for his certainty.

A shy tap sounded at her door. Sophia started upright, crumpling Domingo's letters in her fist and shoving it under the cushion of her chair. Whisking away tears and hoping her reddened eyes might be excused by the fire's smoke, she went to the door.

Diana, her eyes starry bright, smiled hesitantly. Her earlier preoccupation still hung about her, thick enough to hide any of Sophia's anguish.

"May I come in?" she stepped forward before Sophia had time to do more than nod, "I must apologize. I was quite unfair to you this morning; you were only trying to help."

As she went to sit on the very chair Sophia had just left, she held her breath; but the letter made no noise that Diana noticed. Breathing a sigh, Sophia perched on the ottoman at the foot of the bed.

"You need not apologize. What can I do?"

"You can tell me that I am about to do the right thing. I have come to a decision regarding Mr. Banner."

She did not risk a guess. "And?"

"I shall refuse him."

Sophia nodded; it was no more than she had expected.

"Yes," Diana continued, "Mr. Banner may have been right about the life our combined fortunes could have given us, but fortune alone is not a suitable foundation for marriage."

"Are not fortune and affection enough?"

"They are, but I realize now that what I feel for Mr. Banner is not true affection," Diana looked wistfully into the flames, becomingly even in her world-weariness, "We are friends, but that friendship could never develop into love. And I want love. It was not permitted to us in Spain; I mean to have it here in England."

"You deserve to be loved," Sophia replied. As though Diana were a fawn who might startle at her approach, she laid a cautious hand on her sister's knee. "You will find it."

"Thank you. I do hope so. Oh Sophia," she turned her palm to take her sister's hand, "I wish I were like you! So beyond passion for any of the English! So cool and collected! I cannot stop my mind and heart from racing with thoughts and fantasies upon each man I meet. Though it would shame them to know…they are never worth so much time."

"It would be amusing indeed if you _were_ to tell them," Sophia's lips twitched as she heard the words 'cool' and 'collected' applied so egregiously, "But I am sure your discretion is more to be valued. Only keep faith. If you believe there is a man in the world to suit me, there must surely be a dozen who suit _you_."

"Do you mean to say I am less discerning?"

"By no means," she laughed, "Only that you are by far more sweet and beautiful than I. Any man who would not love you is a fool."


	18. XVIII

**XVIII**

Winter wore on, unwelcome as a visit from a tiresome aunt one wishes fervently to be rid of even as courtesy demands she remain. All manner of foul weather and stale enjoyments were no easier done away with than officious family sentiment, and only time could loosen the season's iron grip on the sun's faint warmth.

The circuit of their engagements, though broad enough in comparison with Cadiz, seemed to narrow the longer they remained in London. Sophia traced her dissatisfaction with their dinner parties, dances, theater excursions, and lectures to their constant confinement within doors. Winter winds swirling bitterly between homes, frequently flecked as they were with flurrying snow as sharp as needles, forced them to remain inside; if they ventured out at all, it was only to step immediately into a carriage. Fresh air was feared as a harbinger of disease. Every breath they took was heavy with wood smoke, candle wax, or the stale exhalations of others.

Even Diana, who had stated her intention of attracting at least one further proposal before season's end banished them from the fertile fields of London to quiet retirement in Surrey, became more and more listless as the weeks ground on like gears in a mill. More than once—as they ventured again into the same drawing rooms to participate in the same round of pleasures—had Sophia found her sister standing alone in some alcove, overcome by _ennui_ and requiring a moment's solitude to rally her fading spirits.

Sophia tried not to repine. Though they had enjoyed far milder weather in Cadiz, which allowed for long walks and rides far into the winter, there were many more diversions available on foul days in London. Society here was adept in fashioning unique entertainments, and Sophia had to admit that a spirited round of Charades was as agreeable a way to pass the time as a solitary ride. And though there were few of their London acquaintance superior to their Cadiz friends, there were many who made tolerable companions for an afternoon; even several afternoons in sequence, if necessary.

Still, Sophia's appetite for outdoor exertion sharpened, so when it happened that a Wednesday morning in February dawned mild and clear, she determined to visit her friend Miss Wright without benefit of a carriage.

Upon announcing this intention at the breakfast table, Diana shrugged and Mrs. Herrera sighed. That was permission enough for Sophia; dressed in her warmest pelisse and thickest boots, she stepped alone into the deserted street, breathing deep of the snow-cleansed air of the city.

The first ten minutes of her walk were pure joy, joy of limb and liberty. The wind was mild on her cheeks, kissing them with freshness and color; packed snow crunched cheerfully beneath her boots. She strolled along beneath curtain-draped windows, unseen and anonymous as a zephyr waltzing on the breeze.

As she passed into the second mile however, Sophia began to regret the scope of her ambition. The constant current of winter air, though gentler than on former days, began now to chafe her nose, drawing tears to her watering eyes. The streets were barren, without so much as a hackney carriage in sight.

"Oh well," she sighed, "I must just abide, I suppose."

Stepping briskly warmed her sluggish blood and energized her lazy muscles. Yet by the time she reached Pall Mall, she was grateful indeed to step inside Robert Dodsley's bookstore at No. 52, where a squat coal stove bellowed heat between the stacks. The chief clerk, Mr. Whitmore—whose counsel she had begged more than once to fill the gaps in her poor library—bowed her in, directing Sophia immediately to a well-regarded new release by an unknown lady. Happy engaged in pouring over the first chapter while her frozen fingers thawed, Sophia was almost too enraptured to hear a gentle voice speaking behind her shoulder.

"It is Miss Herrera, is it not?"

"Mrs. Mayfair," she exclaimed, upon turning, "Forgive me, I did not see you."

Commonplace inquiries filled the next several minutes, and when the mutual health of their nearest relatives was securely established, Sophia did not think it would appear either amiss or of peculiar interest if she ventured a more pertinent question.

"And your brother-in-law, Captain Mayfair? Is he well?"

"Oh, indeed. That is, I believe him to be so. My husband hears from him, and I suppose he would tell me if he were not. It is of great import to Mr. Mayfair that Richard be successful; their family were always fervent supporters of abolition. Myself, I think it a pity he could not stay at home longer, as my children are so fond of him, especially little Harry. I declare, he is such a handful without his uncle that it runs me quite ragged to care for him by myself all day."

Sophia naturally assented to this, and a short dialogue on the unaccountable vagaries of young children ensured, which was of infinitely more interest to Mrs. Mayfair than her companion, who waited with ill-concealed patience to inquire again:

"Still, Captain Mayfair _is_ well?"

"My dear Miss Herrera, I quite forgot that you two were so well acquainted! I do beg your pardon; of course you wish to know how he does. Bless you, yes, he himself is well. They had an unremarkable sail down the coast and are not somewhere off the coast of…oh, that very small country just by the bend, there. Where freed slaves are being repatriated…my husband tells me so much about it. Forgive me, my memory is—"

"Sierra Leone?"

"What a mind you have! That is the very one. Yes, and already Richard writes of encounters with two illegal traders. Their captains are in his ship's brig awaiting transport and trial back in England. My husband is elated; his sermons have been full of the evils of the trade ever since Richard sailed away."

Sophia blessed Mrs. Mayfair's well-meaning meanderings; they gave her the chance to catch her breath and reply with vague good wishes for the Captain's continued success.

Mrs. Mayfair beamed gratefully and made her adieus, extending a gracious invitation to the Miss Herreras to visit any time they wished to know of Richard or see her darling children. She assured Sophia they would all be most pleased to see them, the children especially, who languished quite sadly in the continued poor weather, bless them.

Flustered after this unexpected encounter that most uncomfortably stirred Sophia's feelings where she had at last let them settle, it took her ten minutes of sightless browsing through the books before she recovered enough composure to purchase _Sense and Sensibility_ , give direction for its delivery, and continue along to Miss Wright's.

* * *

"My dear! I was beginning to think you should never arrive!"

"Forgive me," Sophia kissed her friend with a rueful smile, "I made a diversion to the booksellers in Pall Mall and met Mrs. Mayfair there."

"Ah," Rose returned the embrace, drawing her into the morning room, where one of her older sisters sat within, a wavering toddler clinging to her knees before the fire. When Rose took a seat by the window with her embroidery in her hands, it made a lovely domestic scene in which Sophia was the only discordant note. "Then I am only amazed you arrived before dark. I did not see your carriage."

"I found I could not bear another morning confined in a box. It is milder than it has been these many weeks. Prepare yourself for a shock when I tell you that I walked here."

"Walked?" both women gasped. Mrs. Bryce tucked one arm around her son as though Sophia's recklessness might somehow endanger him.

Even Rose pursed her lips as Sophia laughed. "You should be more careful. The weather here can shift in an instant. How many times have we set out on a clear day only to be trapped by snow or rain later on?"

"Well," Sophia tossed her head and shrugged off the incipient lecture, "I promise I shall take more care in future. Now, having dared such a perilous journey, am I not to be rewarded?"

"And how am I to reward you?"

"With gossip, of course. In the aftermath of Lady Worthington's ball, I fear Diana and I were summarily banished from all notice by the Corks. Even our friendship with Miss Jane has been fading of late. Normally, I would not care about anything Caroline Cork says or does, but rumors abound that she has some reason to hope for a proposal from Mr. Ludlow? Is this true?"

Rose laughed. "You are in luck. While _I_ am no more to be found among her intimates than you are, was not Caroline a protégé of yours, Martha?"

"Do not speak to me of that selfish girl," Mrs. Bryce sniffed, "The first time she came to see little William here, she paid him hardly any mind at all. I ask you, Miss Herrera, is this a face you could in good conscience ignore?"

Coming at once to kneel beside the child, Sophia clucked, "No indeed. He is a little angel, Mrs. Bryce, truly."

William judged that a proper moment to mess the front of his embroidered gown. In the ensuing chaos of nanny, towels, and caresses, not to mention a secondary eruption that put paid to the rest of his clothes, Sophia retreated to a safe distance.

The nurse bore William from the room, who was still pleasantly babbling through a film of milky foam on his lips. Mrs. Bryce wrung her hands on the threshold until Rose snapped:

"Do sit down, Martha. One would think you had never cooed over any of our sisters' other children before."

"You will be far less glib when it is a child of yours, Rose," Martha sat as bidden, though her ears were still perked for her baby's cry.

"To be sure, but I shall never let my children make me rude. Miss Herrera is still waiting for her gossip. And I think I can guess why."

"What do you mean?" Sophia asked.

Rose's brow arched. "It is no secret that you and your sister made a deliberate effort to entrance Mr. Ludlow away from Caroline Cork. You wish to know whether your efforts have been successful, and to know to _which_ sister his heart belongs."

Sophia chuckled. "I do not think Mr. Ludlow in possession of enough of a heart for it to belong to anyone. I am sure any sensation of his stronger than 'fond' is not one he credits as being based in unbiased, empirical fact."

"Goodness, I can hear his very accent in your voice! But then again, is that not to be expected? Did you not flirt with him yourself, first?"

"If ever I did—which I will by no means admit—it was never intended to come to anything. Nor did it require any particular effort; I only facilitated his long-standing love affair with himself."

"That sounds like a man suited to Caroline," Mrs. Bryce put in, caught at last by the conversation, "She would be very pleased with a man whose self-satisfaction rivals her own. But you may set your mind at rest. I have heard nothing from her that would suggest she anticipates a conquest of that magnitude. If she did, all of London would know of it by now, of that you may be sure."

"There!" Rose crowed, "You may carry home some good news to your sister. She seems in want of it, poor thing."

Sophia, though privately agreeing with Rose's assessment, countered her on her sister's behalf. Diana would not care to be pitied, even by a friend. The pitiable were not attractive.

"Diana, a poor thing?"

"Well, her disappointment with Mr. Banner is known. I am sorry to trouble you, but he has made no secret of her hopes of him."

Sophia bristled like wounded dog. " _Her_ hopes? Is that the tale he tells?"

"Forgive me, but that is what I heard. And from the coolness arising between your two families, I had taken it as the truth. Was there a proposal, then? And did she refuse him?"

Paul and shaken with fury, Sophia launched to her feet. "That—that—absolute cad! When it was he who pursued her from the very first! When we never went out but he found a reason to fall in with us! When his mother most pointedly included us on every guest list and in each invitation! Yet he spreads these rumors? It is beyond belief!"

At her sudden vehemence, Rose dropped her embroidery and Mrs. Bryce hurriedly made her excuses to quit the room.

"I had no idea," Rose breathed, "Your poor sister…I should have known. She is too good for him by far, certainly in light of his financial troubles."

Sophia's heart, storm-tossed already by Rose's revelation, gave another unsteady lurch. "Financial troubles?"

"Yes. My brother-in-law is a member of his club; he tells me Mr. Banner has suffered substantial losses at the tables these several years past."

"But…how can his losses outstrip his rents? Longmorrow Court provides him an income of three thousand pounds!"

"It would, were those rents not already promised in repayment of many loans. Not to mention supporting Mrs. Banner and her daughters; they refuse to endure any retrenchment whatsoever. The Banners are just one of many fine families living far beyond their means on tenuous lines of credit. Forgive me, I thought you knew."

Drained and reeling, Sophia slowly reclaimed her seat.

"Diana refused him because she believed him more interested in her fortune than in herself. This proves her right; _her_ thirty thousand pounds would have handily cleared _his_ debts."

"Leaving him free to accrue more, once the novelty of respectability had worn off," Rose shrugged. "Your sister made a wise decision."

"Though it appears she will be blamed for it."

"Take heart," Rose's voice was even and practical again, "Mr. Banner's tarnished reputation cannot long stand in comparison with your sister's sterling one. Truth will out."

"But she may well suffer in the meantime," Sophia replied, numb.


	19. XIX

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, readers! I don't often openly solicit reviews, but if you are reading, your opinions will be invaluable to me. I'm shopping this book around to a few agents right now, so anything you can tell me to make the story better would be tremendously useful.
> 
> Thank you, and keep reading and enjoying!

**XIX**

_Mr. Perez,_

_Forgive my long delay in answering your letter. I can only make my apologies and appeal to your good understanding, as you must know what what you write of is difficult for me to hear. Rumor and speculation regarding my father's reputation and character are unspeakably distasteful to me, yet that seems to be all you offer me as incentive to begin an investigation that may not only ruin his business but could also endanger your future._

_Normally I should not doubt your instincts, but I believe in this instance your feelings about my father have clouded your judgment. I sympathize with your troubles, truly I do, but if it is my authorization you seek, I fear I cannot give it. Had you any proof to support your allegations, or the evidence of your own eyes, I would not be so harsh. But this you admit you cannot provide, relying only on rumor to support your suspicions. Therefore, I am not willing to gamble the lives and reputations of two men so dear to me._

_As to the rest of your letter, I fear I can make no reply at all. Your sentiments are as known to me as I am sure mine are to you. My sister Maria has conveyed to you my thoughts on our relationship, and my long silence has certainly done the same. My feelings on the subject are as they must be; I hope you too will reconcile yourself to what is inevitable. There can be nothing between us, either now or in the future. We were thoughtless children ever to think there might have been. My wish for you is this: that you realize a life lived in thoughts of the past is a life unlived._

_Please forget me._

_I am, etc._

Sophia threw down her pen and stood for the first time in two full hours. Her chill fingers and numb toes drank in the fire's heat, fed well by six previous versions of her letter. Only one of those prior drafts had escaped the flames; the draft that, had Domingo known of it, he would have walked from Cadiz to London solely to read.

She returned then to that letter, three pages crammed with high-flown confessions of eternal devotion. Though every word set shaking upon the page was truthful as a prayer, even she had to smile as she read them again. Promises to elope, pledges of eternal faith, offers to defy her father and live in poverty if that was to be their lot...by the last fond farewell, Sophia had compromised her morals and good sense so thoroughly she might have been a heroine in some gothic fever-dream.

It had cost her much time and a ruthless will to strip the smallest mention of love from the letter she eventually wrote, but Sophia took comfort in the knowledge that her duty was done and done well. No man could persist in the face of such reasonable coolness as she had conveyed. Domingo would forget her soon, forget her in turning to a woman who, while naturally Sophia's inferior in every sense, would nonetheless give him what he required in a wife.

Sophia paced the length of the morning room, holding her _billet-doux_ against her quiescent heart. For the first time in months, the thought of Domingo's eventual marriage was not a knife in her. It stung like a needle in her throat, but after a moment, she swallowed and her breath came even as ever. She walked, and breathed, and lived.

_That_ disturbed her. Always in Sophia's fantasies of martyrdom and sacrifice, _she_ remained true to the end. _Her_ pain was constant. After all, men should survive their first loves; women should not. Or at least, she should not. She thought she _ought_ not.

Sophia shook her head; it was only the emotional strain of the morning that had confused her. She loved him, she did; she always would. Was not the stream of ink spilled over him incontrovertible proof of that?

To reassure herself, Sophia determined that she _would_ keep the letter.

Tucked securely beneath her pens, Sophia sealed the final copy within an envelope instructing Maria to pass along the contents to Domingo. Grace would send it with the afternoon post, and the great question of what to do about both Domingo and her father would be answered to satisfaction. _Her_ satisfaction, and her father's, but even Sophia's gratification was not enough to blind her to the knowledge that denying Domingo's hope was not kind. That doing so would likely be for his good was of little comfort.

Well. It was done. She would try to forget all else. Senseless recrimination in a situation that had no clear solution would trap her in the past as efficiently as a stunted romance.

The best way to avoid memory's sucking swamp was to throw herself into the present. Diana had set out that morning with plans of luncheon and the Lascelles, so perhaps it was not too late for her to fall in with the crowd. A noisy meal with some frivolous entertainment afterwards would be a perfect distraction.

She rang for Grace to have the letter posted; the maid entered with a man following on her heels. Sophia could hardly believe she was not dreaming the image of her sudden guest, for truly she was so stunned it took her a moment to rise.

"Mr. Mayfair!" Sophia exclaimed, curtsying to his stiff-backed bow. "What a pleasure to see you."

"And you, Miss Herrera," he replied, frowning. Or perhaps that was his habitual expression; as they had not met for weeks, Sophia could hardly remember. All she could recall was his unfortunate lack of resemblance to the Captain; there was no use tracing familiar features when familiarity of feeling was so absent. "I apologize for disturbing you at home."

"It is no disturbance at all. As a matter of fact, your appearance is a rather odd coincidence; I was fortunate enough to meet with Mrs. Mayfair in Pall Mall several days ago."

"She told me; she also informed me you were purchasing novels there."

"Oh yes, I find them most diverting. If Mrs. Mayfair is in need of any recommendations, pray tell her that there are several I think she would enjoy. But I am remiss; please, be seated."

"Thank you," he sat as upright and martial as he stood, "but I was quite cross with Mrs. Mayfair on that score. She has heard my sermons denouncing the dangers of our modern novels, especially those written by ladies. You seem a sensible woman, Miss Herrera, but may I say that is not the case with many others, especially those for whom novels occupy the bulk of their leisure hours. Our country is glutted with literary trash, peddled by those who seek to inflame the senses and distract us from moral virtues."

Sophia took a moment to arrange her skirt. Then, somberly as one of his parishioners, she folded her hands and nodded.

"I quite agree, sir. One must exercise taste and caution when indulging in novels. I beg you, do not blame Mrs. Mayfair; she and I did not discuss our purchases at the time."

"Very well, the damage has been done. Nor was that warning my purpose in visiting you today."

"Oh?"

"Miss Herrera," Mr. Mayfair cleared his throat, "were I not under instructions from someone whose character I trust as implicitly as my own, I should never address you on such a subject. Were it not for the secrecy of this subject, I would insist upon your mother being present before raising it. However, neither circumstance can be helped. My brother, Captain Mayfair—with whom I understand you have a friendly acquaintance—has given me a letter for you."

"Oh." Sophia was spared the necessity of expressing her inexpressible shock and surprise, for Mr. Mayfair went on instantly.

"I have read the letter on Richard's express authorization. After due consideration I have decided the subject it addresses is of enough significance to overcome normal societal bounds by relating its contents to you."

Sophia's thoughts were tumbling so rapidly that it took her a long moment to decipher his meaning.

Mr. Mayfair's frozen facade thawed somewhat at this evidence of her feminine delicacy, which must have been somewhat in doubt over this letter from the Captain which she had neither invited nor known about.

He took pity on her. "I understand. I was shocked as well to think my brother could be so intemperate. If you prefer, I can simply relay his request to you. You need not read the letter yourself."

"No," the word leaped to her lips, "No, I am sure I had rather take the letter, so I might have adequate time for reflection before I reply. He does ask for a reply?"

"He does," Mr. Mayfair's head swung heavily, weighed down by his disapproval, "Though I must warn you, the moral bounds of my sacred office require me to violate some further conventions; I will read your letter before posting it to my brother."

"I quite understand. That does not offend me in the slightest."

They waited in dissatisfied silence before Sophia recalled what she was about.

"May I have the letter?"

"Yes, of course," with due consideration and a ferocious scowl, he produced it. For the first time, Sophia beheld Captain Mayfair's writing. Strange how the hand could convey so much about its owner! Something about the bold, rounded characters that formed her name reminded Sophia of the Captain's own forthright, honest demeanor; had she seen his hand among a dozen others, she thought she might have known to whom it belonged at first glance.

The role of intermediary was clearly one that did not suit Mr. Mayfair; once the letter was in her hands, he rose.

"When will be a convenient time for me to return?"

Sophia forced her eyes away from the letter. "As I am not certain what sort of reply will be needed, I fear I cannot answer. Would it not be more convenient for me to send the letter to you?"

"No, I do not think so. I would not wish to compromise your honor in that way."

"Sir, we are both people of character," Sophia's lips twitched; playing this game had amused at first, but now she was beginning to grow tired of his hothouse flower treatment. "Surely we need not concern ourselves with groundless accusations?"

"Miss Herrera, while you may feel your reputation secure enough to toy with, I do not. I am a man of the world and know well how a rumor may spread in brimstone and fire to scorch everything in its path," he paused as though expecting an awed murmur from her congregation of one, "Therefore, I must insist upon preserving some secrecy in this affair—in this matter. I shall return one week hence; should at that point you require more time, we may discuss this further."

There was nothing for Sophia to do but accede gracefully and bow him out the door.

Then, she faced the much more arduous task of opening and reading Captain Mayfair's letter, a task her fingers were too nerveless to do for another minute.

_Dear Miss Herrera,_

_I apologize for writing. It is not proper. Only greatest force of need has driven me to the expediency of a letter. Were circumstances what they should be, I would have my own avenues for inquiry and would not need to disturb you. However, as you are aware, the West African Squadron is still struggling for recognition and the legitimacy of proper funding. If time allowed, I would make this inquiry in person, but I am not likely to return to England until the summer._

_Knowing you as I do, I hope these explanations will allow you to pardon me for what is a serious breech of etiquette. I also hope that my brother's acting as intermediary will assure you that my purpose for corresponding with you is honorable._

_One further apology. The news I require clarification upon has to do with your family; as such, I am forced to make implications that cast aspersions on your father's character. Regardless of the truth, I am sure this will cause you some consternation. If you choose not to answer my inquiries, I will understand._

_You understand my reasons for taking a posting in such a distance place, undertaking a mission our own government does not even have the dignity to commit itself to. You said you honored my sacrifice. I know asking you to put your own family feeling aside is cruel, but I believe your sympathy with my task will enable you to understand my reasons for asking you to do so._

_I have wasted many words and much paper on preliminaries. Allow me to come to the point._

_Six weeks ago, my vessel the_ Loyalty _gave chase to a ship running without colors. Such vessels are oft captained by pirates, but more often now by tradesmen who wish to keep their identities hidden from the Squadron. When we pursued, the ship ran up a Spanish flag and we were forced to discontinue pursuit, as our jurisdiction does not extend beyond British citizens._

_My first mate did catch a glimpse of the vessel's name before it escap_ _ed us._ _El Bailarín_ _, it was called._

_Here is where my preemptive apologies come into play. I do not mean to imply that your father has anything to do with illegal traders; yet he is a businessman of wealth and standing. To accrue such wealth it is unlikely he has no knowledge of the trade at all. At least, he must have relationships among a great many such tradesmen and therefore may be able to provide me with information about_ _El Bailarín_ _'s captain, crew, and accustomed routes. Slavery is as illegal now in Spain as it is in England. If I cannot punish Spanish perpetrators myself, I can at least inform the government of what I have seen, leaving them to pursue their own investigations._

_If you have any questions, feel free to consult my brother._

_I am, etc._


	20. XX

**XX**

"What is all this?" Mrs. Herrera sat upright abed, her smile wide and delighted, "Surely Grace is not too busy to bring me my breakfast tray?"

"I stole it from her just outside the door and told her to bring mine here as well," Sophia replied, leaning over the rose-painted teapot to plant a kiss on her mother's head.

"And to what should I attribute this uncommon honor of my daughter's presence at such an early hour? After the Campbell's ball last night, I thought you would do as Diana planned and rest all day. Truly, Sophie, you spoil me."

"You flatter me. Besides which, you deserve every spoil I can give. Nor am I so very tired. Though I am certain I will be, later; I did not sleep at all last night."

"What? You stayed awake then, just to share breakfast with me?"

"It has been to long since our last quiet conversation," Sophia set down her mother's tray on an ornate inlaid table and poured a cup of strong tea. If that chased away her yawn, so much the better. "Do not worry for me. I assure you I plan to sleep well and long after a good chat with you."

"Then I am content," Mrs. Herrera beamed, drawing her wrapper about her shoulders as she took the cup Sophia offered. As she did, she touched Sophia's hand with a tender grip that put her to shame; it was clear her mother had been wanting this for longer than she was willing to admit.

Shamed, Sophia determined to make up for lost time. "What would Madame like this morning?"

Chuckling, Mrs. Herrera gave an order for a poached egg and buttered muffin. Sophia prepared them nicely, finishing just as Grace entered with her own breakfast.

In companionable chat, Sophia acquainted her mother with all that had occurred at the prior evening's ball. It had offered a rather significant variation on such an evening's usual order, as Lady Lascelle's great friend Sarah Villiers, Countess of Jersey, had made a whirlwind appearance. Diana and Sophia had had the opportunity to be presented to the Countess; both had received kind attention from her, even if that attention was focused more on her ladyship's own generosity in recognizing them than either girl.

"My goodness," Mrs. Herrera gasped, "Lady Jersey herself! I would have exerted myself if I had known she would be there! What with all the gossip in the papers, all the fantastic rumors flying about...did you get any sense of their truth?"

"Mama, I had never thought to see you indulging in gossip! What a scandalous habit for a respectable married woman."

"My dear, there should be moderation in everything, even respectability."

She laughed, nodding. "True. Well, though it would behoove me to avoid judgment upon a woman I barely know, she was effusive, lively, and quite beautiful. The men in the room positively swooned when she so much as glanced upon them. A woman of such powers who could resist the temptation to exercise them frequently would be a better woman than is likely to be found outside heaven."

She warmed to her subject, the glamour of Lady Jersey's memory overwhelming sense.

"I wish you had seen her! White skin, perfect black curls, dressed in velvet, fur, and fathers...i hope the rumors _are_ true. Such a woman deserves a life of romance."

"My goodness. Here I thought I had raised a moral girl— _one_ moral girl, at least. Diana's virtues I have occasionally doubted, but you, hearing this...I believe you envy Lady Jersey."

Sophia's smile was a little shamed, but it appeared nonetheless. "Let us just say that I do not believe having her life would make me miserable. However, I am reconciled to Lady Jersey's possession of it. She was very kind to us; she even remarked to Lady Lascelle that she would be glad to see us at Almack's"

Mrs. Herrera pouted, toying with crumbs of her muffin. "Glad as I am that you girls may be considered for Almack's, I do wish I were not indebted to Lady Lascelle for the favor. _I_ should have used my connections to earn you a voucher."

"I do not think you shall be indebted to her. Lady Jersey was friendly, but it is very unlikely the other patronesses of Almack's would admit us. We are the epitome of new money, but money is no object to membership there; as we are not a titled family, I consider our chances slim."

"We have titled relations, do not forget—"

"—As though one _could_ forget Lady Worthington!"

"Titled relations," Mrs. Herrera persisted, though Sophia's aside brought the smile back to her face, "Besides, if poets can gain attendance while dukes are turned away at the door, I am sure my two beautiful, elegant, intelligent girls need not worry. I shall see you among the _ton_ if it kills me."

"Do not say such things," Sophia's stomach rolled at the thought, in jest though it was spoken, "I am sure a sacrifice of that magnitude is not necessary, even to appease such a societal shrew as Lady Castlereigh."

Her mother laughed aloud at this and let the matter drop.

Sophia filled her cup again and set her plate aside. A sip or two gave her a moment to arrange her next sentence. Her mother's thankfulness for her attentions that morning curdled in her heart, while the great word 'sacrifice' goaded her on towards her true purpose.

It was essential to appear offhand. "Mama? I was reading something in the paper the other day about a ship sighted off the West African coast. The ship was _El Bailarín_ _"_

"Yes?"

Though she was pointedly stirring cream into her fresh tea, Sophia could detect tension about her mother's normally untroubled eyes. The name was undoubtedly familiar, a dream from a distant past. She swallowed.

"I thought that was odd. Did not father once own a ship of the same name?"

"Yes, I believe so. He owned so many, I could never remember them all. But _El Bailarín_ was his first ship; I often joked with him that he loved it more than he did me. Our family fortune began on that vessel. I am surprised you remember it, though. He sold it on years ago."

"The name pricked my memory," she said, sipping again to hide her trembling lips, "For I do not recall reading its name among the ranks of his fleet when I was old enough to care for his business."

"When it was too old to safely make the Atlantic crossing, your father sold it to a fellow merchant who needed a reliable vessel for local deliveries to Portugal, England, and the Continent. Mr. Santiago was the purchaser, if I remember correctly. Do you remember little Mateo Santiago, who was so infatuated with Diana?"

"Oh, yes. It would have been a good match for them both. What a pity he was only ten at the time."

"Hmm," Mrs. Herrera's smile faded. "I do not understand, my dear. What brings about this line of questioning? You know I never knew or cared to know much about your father's business."

"Nothing particular," Sophia lied poorly, but her mother's distress covered her own, "I was only concerned that...that father had continued his trade in West Africa despite the edict abolishing slavery in Spain. I knew it was a ridiculous assumption," she rushed on, "but I wanted to ask."

Mrs. Herrera set down her teacup, her hand racked with tremors. Her lips were bloodless, drained white, dry, and parched.

"Your father is a law-abiding man," she whispered, "What in heaven's name could cause you to doubt that?"

"Nothing! Nothing at all, Mama. It was just an odd coincidence and it frightened me. Perhaps I thought someone had named one of his own ships after Papi's in order to...to make people think he was violating the law."

Sophia reached for her mother's hand, cut to the heart when Mrs. Herrera drew quickly back.

"Whatever you may have thought, I still cannot understand why you would not trust your father. Have you so quickly forgotten how hard he worked and still works to support our lives here? Do you not recall how close we lived, how narrow our lives were when you were a girl? And now, without your father, do you think what little remains of my poor fortune could give us a house in London, our fine clothes and jewels?"

A hot flush of shame crept up her neck, but when she tried to interject, her mother did not permit it.

"Do you think the connections I managed to maintain after my marriage would have been so glad to see us if we had not returned in such style? You are not a silly girl, Sophia. You know what the world is. You must see that what your father does—by whatever means he does it—is the only thing giving you a chance at finding a place among the ton, not to mention achieving a marriage that will ensure your lifelong respectability and position. And still you question and judge."

"Mama," she was close to crying openly, "none of this was my intention. I love my father; I know we owe everything to him. I only meant—"

"I do not wish to hear any more."

"Very well," chastened, Sophia tucked her chin, bowing low. After a moment of silence, she cast about awkwardly. "More tea?"

"No, thank you. I think I would like to be alone; you ought to go to bed."

"Yes," she rose, unsteady on her numb feet; her tea sloshed, close to spilling. "Mama, I _am_ sorry. I did not mean to upset you."

There was a faint gleam of pity in her mother's eyes, but none of its softness was to be found in her voice.

"I know, my dear. Rest well."

She nodded and left; senseless as a wooden puppet, she wandered down the hall and found herself in her own room without much knowledge of how she arrived. Exhaustion, shame, confusion, and dread weighed heavy on her limbs, threatening to drop her where she stood. Worst of all these was suspicion, a suspicion that, like a signal fire, refused to be extinguished.

Would her mother have objected so forcefully if...if...?

Sophia fended off fear until she burrowed beneath the deep blankets of her bed. But there was nothing she could do thereafter to keep from weeping silently until sleep wrapped her in its dark, obfuscating warmth.

* * *

She woke to a tap on her door, followed immediately by Diana's entrance with a dinner tray. Outside, London was already dark again, its sharp corners and smoky chimneys blotted out by cold winter night. No time seemed to have passed; the morning might have been a nightmare. But the tears dried on Sophia's face were no figment.

"Responsible Sophie, lying abed all day! The ball was not half so fatiguing as all that," Diana tripped into the room, rattling dishes like a scullery maid, "Mama was afraid you would starve in your sleep, so I am under orders not to leave you until you have at least some of Mrs. Clay's delicious roast."

Sophia groaned and hauled her listless body upright.

"You do not look well," Diana set the tray down and pressed one chill hand to Sophia's forehead. "Indeed, you are quite warm; how do you feel?"

"I feel as though I already regret agreeing to attend the Opera with the Miltons tomorrow."

"You must be tired then. I have never known you to say no to an opera. I still blame you, you know, for wasting three hours of my life on that Cimarosa monstrosity."

"Did I not redeem myself for finding us seats at Cadiz' sole performance of _Cosi fan tutte_?"

"Perhaps. It was deliciously scandalous. Now, sit up. I am not free to return to my novel until Mama is satisfied."

Avoiding her sister's prodding fingers, Sophia sat up on her own initiative, groaning all the while. Diana plopped a loaded tray before her and sat expectantly at the foot of the bed.

Her hand paused as she reached for her fork. "Mama asked for a report on my every bite?"

"Not as such, but I received the impression she would look at your plate and send it back until she was satisfied. Strange she would not come herself, but I suppose she did not want to put off her visit to Lady Worthington's card party."

"Then Mama is going alone?" at Diana's nod, she frowned. "I am surprised you are not attending. Mr. Ludlow is a frequent guest at the Worthingtons, after all. It is dull enough there for him."

"Do not speak to me of Mr. Ludlow. I do not know why you should expect me desirous of his attentions when they are duller than a _tete-a-tete_ with you."

"You flatter me so."

"More than you deserve, I am sure. But you are not the only one who can tire of society, especially of society so tiresome. A quiet day alone with a book is a gift I have not permitted myself in months. And it is a gift you deny me so long as you refuse to _eat_."

Sophia ate.

"Did Mama seem well to you?"

"Oh yes. A bit more determined than usual; you know how reluctantly she moves from the house these days. But she asked me a good deal about Lady Jersey and whether I knew if she and Lady Worthington were acquainted."

"Are they?"

"I assume so. Though I have never heard of Lady Worthington's going to Almack's. I would not expect her to. She has no daughter to marry off, and she prefers her balls with good food and better wine."

"True," dinner was often a feature of Lady Worthington's balls, rather than a sideboard from which attendees could pick and choose at their leisure. "What I mean is...did Mama seem upset in any way?"

"No. Why do you ask?"

"I had breakfast with her this morning. Something I said troubled her; I tried to apologize but she would not hear it."

Diana exclaimed. "I saw no evidence of _that_. Oh, Sophie, you did not imply that she was not doing her duty by us, did you? It was Lady Lascelle's introducing us to Lady Jersey, I know...poor Mama. She feels she should be opening doors for us in society. But it is not her fault she has been poorly. How could you make her think so?"

"I—" she stopped. Better to let Diana think so than to confess the whole tale. "It was an accident. I did not think it would upset her; I thought she would be pleased that we might be considered worthy of a voucher to the Assembly."

"You can be oddly insensitive at times," Diana sighed, shaking her head. "Mama is too good to you; after speaking to me like that, I should have let you starve."

"Apparently I should have deserved a lingering death," Sophia set upon her dinner again before Diana could make good on her threat. "At least wait until I finish the roast. It _is_ rather good."


	21. XXI

**XXI**

"Miss Herrera. I hope this is a convenient time."

Sophia, who had been dreading this appointment all week, rose with an apologetic curtsy to greet her guest. "Mr. Mayfair, I am sorry to say it is not. If you had only permitted me to send a note to you ahead of time, I might have spared you this journey."

The clergyman's face clouded over like a threatening blizzard. "You require more time, then? Or have you decided not to reply to my brother's letter?"

"I assure you I have every intention of replying. However, as you know, Captain Mayfair asked me to see what I could discover about the Spanish ship he spotted. Though my father is a merchant with many connections among Spanish tradesmen, _I_ am not so familiar with their ranks. I have written to him," she lied, "for information, but it will take another week at least before he tells me what, if anything, he knows of _El Bailarín_ _._ I pray you will be patient."

"It is not my patience I am concerned with. My brother's mission should not be delayed by so much as an unnecessary hour; slavers must be punished."

"I am wholeheartedly in agreement, sir," she resumed her seat when her polite gesture towards a sofa had no influence on Mr. Mayfair's rigid pose near the hearth, "Therefore, if you would write to your brother informing him I am gathering what intelligence I can, I would be most grateful. If at the same time you would be so good as to tell him that I was by no means offended by his application for my help, I am sure he would be glad to hear it."

"Yes. He seemed very desirous of not upsetting you," Mr. Mayfair's tone clearly conveyed that he did not consider Sophia's feelings worth such jealous protection, "I shall do so. You consider another week ample time to receive word from your father?"

"If he is able to give us any useful information on the matter, I assume he will do so shortly."

"Then I shall return next week."

As it was clear their interview was over, Sophia rose again, biting her tongue to keep from repeating her offer of simply forwarding the letter to him when she had written it. It would be the work of an hour for their footman, sparing them both the necessity and irritation of another clandestine meeting. But she did not mean to invite another diatribe on the dangers of a ruined reputation. If Mr. Mayfair insisted upon this cloak-and-dagger farce, she would play her role dutifully.

Perhaps she might have forced him to reconsider if she had remarked how odd it would seem for a married man to visit a woman while it was known she was alone, and to make a regular weekly appointment of doing so.

But she let the matter drop.

"Very well. Please do convey my best wishes to Mrs. Mayfair and her children."

"I shall. Until next week, Miss Herrera."

She curtsied, waited until the front door closed heavily behind him, and returned at once to contemplating the letter she had hidden at the sound of the bell.

_My dear Sophia,_

_Forgive me if this finds you late. I penned it as fast as I could. I was shocked to hear what you and D have been plotting together. I know the plan began with him, but that you consider it worth belief is surprising, especially in light of the letter you sent D at first on the subject. Forgive me, but he did share his disappointment to me himself; I would never open your letters to him without permission. He desired my opinion on the subject after hearing yours._

_Now, to hear that you could believe D enough to think it possible? Papi, remain a slaver when it could cost him everything? I know what you think of him; you know what I think of him. Practical, clever, ruthless he is. He would not make such a foolish error._

_However, since you think the subject worth discussion now, I have done for you what I can._

_Papi's records are coded careful as ever, but he still trusts me to manage the accounts, at least as they help me manage the household. Since Mrs. Herrera is gone, Papi is no longer cautious about spending as much time as he wishes at his dockside haunts. This leaves me free to explore other ledgers besides the household ones._

_I have found the bill of sale for_ _El Bailarín_ _; Mrs. Herrera's memory is correct. It was his first ship, one he kept running in the trade until '98. A storm off Cuba laid if up for months with repairs. A great hole in the hull had to be fixed. When it finally returned to Spain, Papi made arrangements to sell it to Mr. Santiago. After that sale, all mention of the ship drops from his records._

_Still, you and I know that many involved in the Triangle trade make arrangement between them for the benefit of all. With that in mind, I continued looking through years of Papi's records until his most recent shipments, after the abolition of the trade._

_There are many streams of income he reports that I cannot readily understand. D was correct when he says that our style of living has not changed, even with the added expenses of maintaining a London residence. Some of Papi's income is likely royalties paid by captains for the use of his vessels. Others are from passengers. Single large sums may be returns for favors or sales of rare goods._

_One recurring account, marked from a payee SEB, caught my attention. It is only credited as income every three months or so, in large amounts ranging from two thousand to five thousand pounds. There is no mention of who or what this SEB is, but the letters are peculiar. I thought—and D agrees—that they could be "Santiago—_ _El Bailarín_ _"._

_Make of it what you will. I can find nothing else to support D's ideas or your suspicions about Papi's supposed lawlessness._

_I do not know whether to hope or fear that this helps you. I do not think it will; D's word against our father's would never pass in court. Nor would he hesitate to disown you if you stood witness against him. But I need not warn you of this; you know his character._

_But I am your servant, always. If you wish for more details or copies of Papi's records, ask me._

_I am sorry to hear your mother was troubled by your questions. I was shocked you asked her anything about it. How can you have seen the way she treated me and assume she would help? Forgive me. I do know she was kind as she knew how to be. But she has never been willing to see that our father could do the slightest wrong. She preferred always to ignore his failings, rather than try to right them._

_Only be careful what you say to her. Do not damage your warm relationship when she neither could nor would tell you anything to harm your father._

_I am always, your loving sister,_

_Maria_

Sophia pushed away the letter and sighed. Speculation, speculation; none of it definitive proof, not of anything. Even Captain Mayfair had had no proof that _El Bailarín_ had been running slaves from Sierra Leone; the struggling freemen colonies there required regular shipments of goods. _El Bailarín_ might have been one of the many vessels to provide them. That it ran when chased by a British frigate was no unequivocal sign of guilt, either.

Maria's letter had arrived the previous morning, but Sophia had not been able to compose her thoughts in order enough to convey them to Captain Mayfair with any clarity.

He must have an answer eventually, though. When she drafted it, Sophia would be the one to decide how far, if at all, to implicate her family in the history of a suspect slave ship.

Frustrated, Sophia folded the letter and secreted it underneath her pens, where lay the rest of her private correspondence. She had been dwelling on a single object for over a day; it was not healthy, nor was continued focus on it like to provide her a fresh perspective. She craved distraction.

After ringing for Grace and instructing her to ready their carriage, Sophia went upstairs to dress to be seen. Pall Mall was sure to be bustling at this hour; browsing new-arrived fashions, drinking a cup of chocolate, and perhaps buying another new novel to join the stacks of those she had still not had the time or attention to read would give her something else to consider besides deceit and deception.

She traded her simple worked muslin morning gown for a concoction of cranberry wool and tawny fox-fur, arranging her curls neatly beneath a bonnet clustered with white silk flowers. The face she met in the mirror was drawn with worry, lips tight and weighted by troubled thoughts; she forced it to smile and pinched some color into her cheeks. When her blood failed to run, she ran to Diana's room, stole her secret pot of rouge, and dabbed it on.

After all, Lady Jersey had troubles of her own, but she never allowed anyone to read them on her face.

Sophia took her lesson well. After a moment and a little more paint, she looked carefree and blithe as what she was; a rich, beautiful heiress free to amuse herself as she pleased in the greatest city in the world.

"Miss," Grace poked her head into Sophia's bedroom, "James has brought the carriage 'round, but he wishes me to remind you that Mrs. Herrera has requested it be ready at four o'clock to take her to tea at Lady Worthington's."

"I shall be back in plenty of time. It is hardly past noon now. If Mama returns before I do, tell her I have gone shopping."

"Yes, Miss."

Her message was irrelevant. Mrs. Herrera met Sophia on the stoop; one coming in, the other headed out.

"Why, you look lovely this morning!" Mrs. Herrera greeted her with joy that spoke nothing of their tense few days' past, "After breakfast you said you intended to remain at home all day."

"Even I am guilty of speaking rashly at times," Sophia replied, "But Mama, you are the lovely one! When you announced your intention to pay calls this morning, I had no idea you meant to make such a show of it."

Mrs. Herrera laughed and turned about, allowing her navy military pelisse and gold braiding to be fully seen. It was a millinery work of art that suited her well-molded figure to perfection. "I am lovely because I have some marvelous news to share. Are you on your way somewhere in particular?"

"Not at all. I was only thinking that a shopping trip would enliven the day. Some of my bonnets are looking a bit worn about the edges. Aside from satin ribbons and new books, I had no plans."

"Then if I may, I will delay your trip. Come, we'll have some tea as I regale you with tales of my great triumph."

"A triumph?" Sophia asked, quite willingly following her mother and shedding her coat and muff into Grace's confused arms. "I shall not need the carriage after all just yet; pray apologize to James for me. And bring tea to the morning room."

"Bring it to my sitting room, Grace," Mrs. Herrera interposed, adding her pelisse to the mountain growing in their maid's arms, "We shall not want to be disturbed, either; please give word that we are out, should anyone call."

"Yes, ma'am," Grace struggled to rise from her curtsy, but set off quickly.

Mother and daughter trotted upstairs, chatting of this and that until they settled cozily around Mrs. Herrera's little table in the middle of her sitting room, pouring each other fragrant cups of tea. Mrs. Herrera hardly permitted herself to wet her lips before she launched into her tale.

"Now, you know I have been more active this past week. Can you guess why that is?"

"I should imagine it is because you feel you have been lax in executing your motherly duties. Mama, how many times have Diana and I stressed that—"

"No scolding, please," she held up a hand, "This week has been good for me. I should have tried it sooner. Why lay abed or mope around the house when a little exertion would raise the spirits more than any medicinal draught? But you are right; I felt guilty that Lady Lascelle, of all women, had been responsible for your introduction to Lady Jersey. So I concocted a scheme to introduce you to several of the other patronesses of Almack's; this morning saw me put the finishing flourish on that scheme."

Her mother's sly cheer was irresistible, and Sophia found herself caught. "How so? I thought you were only visiting the Phillipses?"

"Yes, but they have vouchers for Almack's. They rarely go now that Cassandra is married, but Sarah Phillips—my second cousin, you know—said she would be glad to promote our membership in any way she could. Add this promise to the fact that Lady Worthington has invited Mrs. Caroline Lamb to tea this afternoon, at my insistence, and that makes three of six patronesses to meet you this month.

"If all goes to plan, you and Diana should have vouchers for Almack's in another fortnight!"

"Brava Mama, wonderful news indeed!" Sophia cried, applauding this flawless maneuver, "I cannot believe you arranged all this without letting a word drop, especially to Diana. I should have thought she would sniff out a story as good as this. Then, we are to go with you to tea at Lady Worthington's?"

"Yes. I told Diana before she left this morning to be back in good time to dress; it is fortunate I met you just now or you might have missed your chance."

"I am shocked in the face of such news Diana would dare to venture from home at all. Surely she will need six hours at least to attend her ensemble?"

"She went out for the express purpose of buying a new muff for the occasion."

"A muff?" Sophia shook her head, "Surely there is no call for that. Mrs. Lamb will not even see us outside, unless she is by the window when we come from the carriage."

"You know your sister. She must be perfect to the last detail."

"Hmm," Diana's perfection in matters of dress had Sophia wishing for her counsel now. "I do not suppose I have enough time to be proper? I dare not ask for perfection, but I must be presentable at least. There are only three hours until we must leave, after all."

"Never fear, my love. I will have you looking radiant."


	22. XXII

**XXII**

"Well, well. You have arrived at last," Lady Worthington cast half an eye over her guests as they entered, and did not trouble herself to do more than wave them into the room, "Lady Lamb, may I present Mrs. Herrera, my husband's niece. Her daughters, Miss Herrera, Miss Diana Herrera. Lady Lamb, Countess Cowper."

The three Herrera ladies curtsied deeply; when they rose, Lady Lamb regarded them with a warm, animated smile. Seated next to their squat, square aunt, who resembled a perfect mushroom in brown velvet, Lady Lamb was a fairy-tale princess.

A pause succeeded before Lady Worthington remembered her role and asked them to be seated.

Mrs. Herrera, magnificent in her newest gown of cerise muslin and mink, sat to the Countess' left. The two sisters—Diana in fresh buttery yellow and Sophia in pale green and lace—sat on a low sofa opposite, where they did their best to appear like a pastoral painting come to life.

On a table between them was a tremendous potbellied silver teapot and its stately coffee urn, piping hot, fragrant steam into the chilly air. A vast array of cakes and confections, many ordered from the finest confectioners' in town, orbited these twin stars, but not a single one had been touched. Candied fruits sparkled like rock crystal, so thickly coated with sugar as to be almost inedible.

Despite her heavy-eyed appearance of indifference, Lady Worthington had clearly been to some exertion; her stately parlor had never seemed more polished. Each surface gleamed dully in the indirect light of winter's fading afternoon sun; candles illuminated already shadowed corners, their lights reflected in mirrored sconces. The poor light was not enough to keep both girls from discreetly eyeing her ladyship's beautiful net of pearls, which encircled her swan's neck like mermaid treasure.

Lady Lamb was by no means the most beautiful woman, but there was a harmony to her face, features, and figure that sang in an agreeable chorus. Moreover, an air of kindness hung about her; there was none of that hauteur in her manner that so distinguished—albeit disagreeably—Lady Worthington. She reigned from a place of true superiority, rather than by making those around her inferior by scathing reminders of their relative importance.

Sophia liked her immensely.

"It is a pleasure to meet you at last," Lady Lamb said, voice soft and smooth, "I have heard much of the beauty, grace, and elegance of the Herrera sisters and am glad to see that rumor, in this case, has not outstripped the truth. Mrs. Herrera, I congratulate you on two such remarkable girls."

"Your ladyship is very kind," Mrs. Herrera bloomed at this compliment, "May I say it is an honor for us to meet you. All of London admires your generosity and good-nature."

"Well, all of London certainly exaggerates. But I thank you, nonetheless. I would be a fool to scorn such high praise."

"To be sure," Lady Worthington interrupted, "Tea, Emily?"

"Please," Lady Lamb nodded, seeming not at all disturbed by Lady Worthington's familiar use of her name. Diana and Sophia exchanged looks; from Diana's raised brow, Sophia could tell her sister was as confused as she was as to whether this was proof of Lady Worthington's intimacy or insolence.

A short interlude followed until they were all provided with tea and refreshments.

Once they had all made play at assuaging their hunger, Lady Lamb proved herself a natural hostess by launching the conversation anew. "From what I hear, I understand this is your first season in London, is that right?"

Mrs. Herrera ceded her place in the conversation with a wink at her daughters.

"It is," Sophia answered, "Until last year, our home was always in Spain. Cadiz, mostly, but we traveled extensively along the Mediterranean coast and to Madrid."

"I have heard Spain is a country of great natural beauty."

"Oh, yes," Diana put in, eyes soft with memory, "There are places where the sea meets the shore that remind one of fairy tales, so white is the sand and so blue is the ocean. Then there are wild rocky stretches where the wind is so strong it forces the trees to grow sideways and bent, like wizened old men. You can stand on high bluffs and watch great ships battle the gale, marveling at the strength and bravery of captains willing to fight such seas."

"You have a poetic heart, Miss Diana," Lady Lamb's head tilted with her question, "It must have cost you something to leave such a lovely place?"

"Yes, but there is much recompense to be found here. I am sure that as England reveals itself to us, we will find in it natural wonders to rival anything Spain has to offer. Thus far we have not left London and have not been disappointed in the slightest."

"It may boast no wild shores or high bluffs, but London at least has cultural attractions to interest, does it not?"

"Indeed," Sophia chimed in with her preferences, "hardly a week has passed when we have not been to the theater or the opera. What a time we live in for literary and dramatic achievements! And the heart of the age is undoubtedly in London. Does your ladyship enjoy the theater?"

"Of course. One could hardly live here, as you know, without being constantly called upon to partake in its pleasures."

"Called on rather too often, in my opinion. To be sure, some of the rubbish put on nowadays! Scandal and drama for scandal's sake," Lady Worthington seemed to take positive pleasure in contradicting her friend, and by assuming some imagined moral superiority in doing so, "while our classics are entirely neglected. I do not know when I last saw a good Shakespeare. It is all modern playwrights now."

"Yet if we only lived in the past, our dramatic legacy would surely stagnate," Mrs. Herrera commented, "I do enjoy Shakespeare, but he will never go out of fashion, so to speak. We ought to give a little more time to new dramatists if we are to find new Shakespeares."

"There will only ever be _one_ Shakespeare," Lady Worthington declared, crunching a sugar flower between her teeth.

There was no argument to be made to that.

"I think we must look to prose for innovation now," Sophia thought quickly, casting about for a new subject, "In Cadiz—even in Madrid, when we visited—it was difficult to lay our hands on new English works, though our father was always willing to bring us any book we desired, so long as he thought it beneficial. Here, I believe I read twice what I used to, and it is all fascinating. Works of biography, history, travel diaries...I feel I know the world far better than I used to."

"I am glad to hear it. My younger brother will be yet more pleased; he has literary aspirations of his own. He would admire you, Miss Herrera, for it is not every young woman who would make time to read in the heart of the season," with a despairing gesture, she continued, "I wish I had more time for instructive books, but if I have time to read anything other than the society columns, I fear it is only a novel."

Sophia laughed. "I have read a good deal of those too. How innovative they have become! How authors seem to catch the very tone and lightness of ordinary speech! So different from the plodding style of but a few years' past. I admit, novels sometimes catch my attention more than the most celebrated biography on the shelf."

"It is by novels that we first became familiar with London," Diana added, "It may seem silly to your ladyship, but often since arriving we have discussed which of our expectations have been met and which were wildly overdrawn!"

"I am sure there are a good many of _those_. I would imagine just about as many wild rumors are written about Spanish royalty and high society."

The Herrera ladies all laughed. "One would think that the royal family hatched a new plot every week, and false identities and abductions occurred every other day," Mrs. Herrera shook her head.

"Do not forget the Papists, Mama," Sophia chuckled, "and their endless schemes threatening to tear the country apart!"

"Rather like Shakespeare's Italy, our novelists set everything abroad—at least as far distant as the moors to the North—when they wish to dwell on subjects deemed too warm for good, steady English society. Perhaps Spanish novelists should do the same."

Sophia was amazed at how easy their conversation flowed; common knowledge dwelt only on Lady Lamb's generosity and kindness, and ignored her remarkable conversation. Her interest in others, combined with a willingness to facilitate discussion on subjects of interest to all, meant that Sophia had never been so well entertained in Lady Worthington's house before.

All ease vanished at her ladyship's next question.

"Do you play, Miss Herrera?"

She hesitated. "I do, but I should be sorry to be heard at it. My fingers stumble over each other so badly that I may only get through a song if my auditors are very deaf indeed. Or if they are fond of me. I have been shy to play in front of so many celebrated musicians among among our new acquaintance here, and I am so out of practice I view our pianoforte with more dread than pleasure."

"Surely you are too modest," Lady Lamb said, "Forgive me; so many ladies are pleased to be pressed into performance, but I shall certainly make no such request if you do not wish it."

"It is the form to be modest," Lady Worthington scoffed, brandishing her teacup, "I would rather a girl tell me right off that she could play and was proud of it. Ladies now are too shy of their accomplishments. I could play well; after our marriage, my husband still asked me to play for him."

"I remember how well you sang," Mrs. Herrera agreed, "Do you still play?"

"No indeed. To be sure, what would be the point?"

"And you, Miss Diana? Do you play?" Lady Lamb gently redirected the conversation's drift.

"No better than my sister does. We were wicked children, always begging our governess to take us out so that we might practice our drawing in the public squares."

"Then you draw?"

"I will satisfy Lady Worthington's desire for boldness," Diana's eyes sparkled, "when I declare: quite well. But Sophia's talents exceed mine; some of her watercolors capture the very essence of Cartagena's coastline. If your ladyship were to see them, you would know at once what it was to be on those wild cliffs."

"They capture a shadow of the sensation, no more," Sophia remonstrated, "When compared to the work of true artists, mine is but a pale shadow indeed."

"Well, I hope if it is a passion of yours that you will not give it up. Every woman needs a talent to occupy her hours. Until children fill them for you, of course. Then," she sighed, "an uninterrupted hour at the pianoforte or with a book becomes a distant dream!"

"Your ladyship has children of your own, do you not?" Mrs. Herrera's motherly instincts roused.

Lady Lamb glowed in that angelic way all matrons share when another evinces interest in her brood. Even Lady Worthington's sour mood dropped away as the mothers traded stories of their children's misadventures, triumphs, and minor disgraces.

The two sisters then had little to do but nod and smile, putting in a comment here or question their to prove their unflagging interest. Tea and pastries steadily declined; the sun too dropped below the horizon, plunging the room into sudden darkness.

When a troop of maids entered to trim the candles and stir up the fire to combat evening's frosty chill, Lady Lamb's carriage returned and her ladyship stirred herself. In a flurry of thanks to Lady Worthington, pleasantries to the Herreras, and pledges to see to their admission to Almack's—this last gratefully acknowledged by Mrs. Herrera—she sailed away.

* * *

"What a victory you won, my loves!"

Relaxed against the cushions of their own carriage not ten minutes after her ladyship's departure, Mrs. Herrera heaved a gusty sigh and grinned at her daughters.

"I do not believe I was ever more proud of you in my life. My girls, so lovely, so well-bred! Holding forth with a Countess on matters of culture and literature! When I write your father of this, he will buy you both gold earrings, see if he does not.

"If after all this Lady Lamb does not go to the other patronesses and _demand_ vouchers for the two of you, I declare I will eat my bonnet."

"Feathers should go down easily enough with sufficient jam," Sophia chuckled, "Mama, I beg you not to much too much stock in a single meeting. Lady Lamb has many demands on her time. Even _should_ we be admitted to Almack's, perhaps nothing will come of it."

"My darling, attending assemblies at Almack's is not significant merely for the prospects you find there. One can meet pleasant, eligible men in any ballroom. Going to Almack's signals tacit acceptance from the very best of society, regardless of name or fortune. It is approval from the matriarchs of London. Such approval is only to your good, whatever else may come of it."

Diana nudged Sophia's feet under the lap rug and yawned. "For one day, Sophia, can you not worry about the future? Now that this meeting is over, I intend to put it from my mind. Once I have gone to Madame Aubert's and planned a new ball gown down to the last detail, that is."

Her eyes rolled heavenwards as though borne upward by winged visions of satin and lace. "A pale purple would suit me well, would it not? As a hint of growing flowers amid the depths of winter?"

Sophia nudged back. "I suppose if _you_ are putting in an order at the milliner's, _I_ should as well. We ought to coordinate colors so as not to clash. Unless you think it would be an embarrassment to walk into the rooms at Almack's side by side."

"My darling sister, if you stirred from my arm at such a time, I do not believe I should ever forgive you."


	23. XXIII

**XXIII**

_Dear Captain Mayfair,_

_Though I am sure your brother as accurately conveyed my sentiments, I feel the need to tell you that I was not offended by the request made in your letter. That you trust me to assist in your mission is a compliment requiring no apology. Happily, I am able to supply part of the information you desire._

_Your mention of the vessel_ El Bailarin _seems almost fateful. When you turned to me for assistance, I do not suppose you had any idea that not only would I know the vessel, but would, with a little time and inquiry, be able to tell you exactly who owns it now._

_When I was young,_ El Bailarin _was, to my childish mind, almost another member of our family. It was my father's first ship, which he used to seed, grow, and make flourish our fortune. I was very young at the time, but when my father came into port, I remember several times he permitted me to visit him on board. However, to my knowledge,_ El Bailarin _was nothing but a common trading vessel. Whether it has become anything else since its sale is beyond me._

_I can share this knowledge with you candidly, because I am certain my father has nothing to do with its recent actions off the West African coast. He sold the ship in '98 to a neighbor and colleague of his; a Senor Gabriel Santiago, of Valencia. As far as I know, Valencia is still his primary port of call. If you are hoping to find the ship, I would recommend directing any further investigation there._

_Please know that I would be glad to help you with any other questions that might reasonably fall into my or my father's realm of knowledge. Any assistance I can give you is yours._

_With best wishes as to your health, safety, and success of your voyage, I remain,_

_Sophia Herrera_

"You have sealed the letter."

"Yes. A mistake perhaps, but I thought with the sensitive information inside you would rather have it sealed than not. I am fully aware that you will read the letter before forwarding it to your brother, so have no fear of breaking the seal."

Mr. Mayfair held the letter between his forefinger and thumb; his glower might have burned a hole through it. "Do you believe this will conclude any cause my brother may have for writing to you?"

"I cannot say, Mr. Mayfair," Sophia fought to keep her expression neutral, "Your brother may have need of further information from my father. If that is the case, I have offered to provide it. Whether he will make use of that offer depends on his future requirements, which you must allow may change with less notice than either you or I might prefer."

"I suppose," he sighed, tucking her letter into his breast pocket, "in such an instance, you may be certain I will prayerfully meditate upon the request before troubling you again."

"Please, it is no trouble. The success of the Captain's mission is of tantamount importance to me. I will trust your judgment, however."

Mr. Mayfair hesitated. "I trust there is nothing in your letter of a personal nature.?"

"Nothing more than my best wishes to the Captain. If you feel those are too pointed," it was a miracle she kept the smile from her face at this juncture, "you have my full permission to relay the sense of my letter to him, rather than the letter itself."

"I am sure that will not be necessary," his furrowed eyebrows gave the lie to his stiff courtesies, "Well, then I suppose I will bid you good day."

"Good morning," she replied, hoping very much—despite her warm affection for Captain Mayfair and her desire to know how he did—that she would never have to lay eyes on his brother, or feel his eyes upon _her_ , ever again.

Her wish was almost fulfilled, save that Mr. Mayfair turned once at the door.

"Forgive me, I almost forgot. Little niceties tend to slip my mind. My wife desires me to extend an invitation to you and your sister to drink tea with her. Perhaps this coming Monday, if it is convenient?"

"I..." she hesitated, "I believe we have no other engagements, but I will write Mrs. Mayfair later today to inform her after consulting my sister. Please thank her for her kindness."

He nodded. "I hope you will be able to attend her. I fear, though she will not admit it, that she is often lonely. London's sad moral state requires me to work more often than she would like. In our own parish she has much to do, but here in town she has only to look after our own children. So much indulgence leads to idleness and isolation."

"If we have no prior engagements," Sophia's pity for the neglected—and likely, for all her husband's fears, overworked—Mrs. Mayfair prompted her to speak with a warmer smile than she felt, "I am sure we will be happy to join her."

"I thank you," he said, with another bow. With no further delay, he was gone at last.

Sophia sank into her chair. While speaking to Mr. Mayfair, she had perforce needed to keep her tone even and her expressions bland. Now, the intolerable weight of guilt swelled into a burden to great for her to bear for another second.

She had lied—for a lie of omission was still a lie, as Duenna Garcia had drummed into her mind every day of her youth—lied to a man she admired. She had lied, to spare her parents and her sister, yet that would be no salvation to her soul. The knowledge that _El Bailarin_ had once been a slave ship would have been useful. The knowledge of her father's participation in the trade, and a list of his closest associates—which Maria could have provided—might have helped bring dozens of men to justice.

In vain did Sophia tell herself that perhaps Captain Mayfair could untangle the web of mystery in her father's business without her, bringing the truth to light in a way she could not. But she had done nothing to help him do so. Thus, she was at fault. If _El Bailarin_ sailed on to carry yet more hateful cargo, she might as well have laid her hand on the wheel to steer it right.

Yet even as she grieved over her deception, even as she felt its crushing weight, Sophia could not see how else she might have acted.

No one had ever justly accused Sophia of frivolity, not of late, but she did her best to seem so just then. James, engaged that morning to deliver Diana to the Miltons for a shopping excursion, was tasked to return for her in an hour, in order to drive her and Sophia to the Wrights. Rose had been ill the past fortnight with chills and fever. Such a long confinement had left her desperate; the day before she had sent Sophia a note to beg for some company during her convalescence. As the doctor had informed them she was no longer contagious, the sisters had determined to keep her occupied with stories and gossip.

That hour, however, passed heavily, though Sophia did her best to throw her focus into matters of dress. After their afternoon with Rose, the girls were bidden to a ball at the Lascelles, an affair likely to rival the grandeur at Lady Worthington's. Sophia had had some alterations made to one of her dresses, a lavender satin concoction, renewing its trim with fresh lace. Silver gauze would bind her hair, and silver ornaments would be at her throat and ears. Diana declared she would look a perfect princess.

Yet what good was being a princess when her uneasy conscience tortured her like an imp?

* * *

"My sister tells me you met with Lady Lamb a few days past."

Rose was bundled in so many blankets her flushed face looked like the burning heart of some gargantuan tropical flower. Fever's ravages showed her in hollowed cheeks, but she took tea and munched on cucumber sandwiches with vigor.

"How is it you know everything that passes, even when locked like Rapunzel in her tower?" Diana looked pleased to discover that her juiciest bit of news already in circulation; it saved her the trouble of appearing to boast of it.

"There are few benefits to being the last in a long line of beautiful married sisters, but one of those advantages is having access to many pairs of ears. At least one sister attends me daily, and she always bears comfits, candy, toddies, and tales," Rose unearthed one of those candies now and popped it whole into her mouth.

"I wonder you missed us at all," Sophia remarked, "Though I should imagine their tales are often more about their children than about society."

"Often they are, but not always," Rose swallowed her chocolate and reached for another, "Which is why I demand you tell me all about Lady Lamb. I have met her in passing, of course, but never to converse. And I doubt she remembers _me_ , other than as the plain, spinster Wright girl."

"A spinster? At nineteen?" Diana cried, "What must _we_ seem to be then?"

"My dear Rose," Sophia did not often take offense at such things, but even she had to wince, "you are not very generous."

"Well, you must see things from my perspective. My sister Eleanor was married at sixteen, and Mary was the last to wed, at twenty. Is it any wonder I despair of my chances? But you shall _not_ distract me. Tell me everything."

'Everything' was a large order, but Sophia did her best to fill it. "If all you knew were rumors about her ladyship, they would not give you an inaccurate picture of her goodness," she said, "After meeting her, I wonder how she can be such a friend to our aunt when one has all the virtues and the other only a vague echo of them."

Rose grinned. "Lord Worthington's powers in Parliament must be well worth flattering. What did you find to talk about?"

"Oh, everything," Diana said, "England and Spain, literature and drama, music, drawing...she had excellent information on a wide range of subjects. She said I had a poetic heart."

"How dull," Rose stifled a sniff in an embroidered lily on her handkerchief, while Diana tried not to pout, "I thought you might talk of the _ton_ and its many scandals. Or perhaps Lady Lamb's alleged affairs...though I doubt there is a single patroness in Almack's whose name has not been coupled with one agreeable nobleman or other."

"Perhaps we will be able to discover more on that subject should we arrive in the _ton_ ourselves," Sophia stole a chocolate from Rose's box, "As it was, we had hardly time or opportunity to do so."

"I suppose you did not," Rose affected a deep, put-upon sigh, "It _is_ frustrating. My sisters have all made good matches, yet not a one seems interested in promoting _my_ chances. _They_ did not need Almack's, so clearly I should not either. That I am plain and beholden to them and their children does not enter their calculations, of course. Ah, me. If you are admitted, I anticipate barren Wednesday evenings. You will be off at the assembly, and I—"

"Before you work yourself into another fever," Sophia interrupted, patting her friend's hand, "I do not hold out many hopes for it. Mama puts great store in our interview, and Diana is an eternal optimist, but there are so many eligible debutantes in London, I doubt Lady Lamb can remember us all. So be easy on the subject of your Wednesdays."

"So pessimistic," Diana scolded her, "But could I expect otherwise? Our Sophia needs no assistance to find excellent matches."

In Rose's company she would not come closer to her meaning, but Sophia still glared. After everything she had endured, endured that very day, in fact, the rude jibe irritated her like a bee sting.

"Now _there_ is a story, I am sure. Sophia, have you been keeping something from me?"

"Only if you take my sister's fevered daydreams as truth. I believe she is ashamed of me; would not you be of a sister with no prospects when she dangles one from every finger?"

"Not necessarily," Rose shrugged, "I should be too occupied in comforting the ones she chooses to dangle no longer."

The girls laughed.

"I must say, I am desperately tired of all the men in our circle," Diana sighed, "I would happily let some drop if only I would not then need to bear their imprecations at every card-party and dance."

"Then you must wait another two months at least before ruining their dearest hopes. Make a clean break, followed immediately by a retreat into the countryside."

Sophia nodded, "It would prevent any importunate midnight visits, tearing of hair, wearing of sackcloth and ashes, or moans of despair."

"You two are impossible," Diana stood and stalked to the window, tossing her curls. Rose chuckled, laughter exhausting itself in dry coughs.

Sophia took her teacup and filled it again.

"If it is variety you seek," she said, hoping to coax Diana from her tantrum, "I have an invitation from a new family."

It was bait too sweet to ignore. Diana turned. "Oh?"

"Yes. A note arrived from Mrs. Mayfair this morning," it was a lie, whiter than many she had told of late, but it slipped out with disturbing ease, "She wishes us to join her for tea. On Monday, if I remember correctly. We have no plans for Monday, I think?"

"Unless Captain Mayfair has an eligible younger brother, I doubt their home will furnish me anything to combat the boredom of our recent engagements."

"No, but she does have three children. If memory serves, _one_ of them is a boy. Will that do?"

"Even for me, that would be playing the long game indeed!"


	24. XXIV

**XXIV**

The dance ended in a clamor of applause, spectators and dancers alike bursting with laughter and lightness. The Lascelles had wrapped them all in a bubble as delicate as crystal and dazzling as diamond; everyone felt the magic of the evening's charm. Sophia bowed to Captain Fenwick, a handsome raven-haired officer new-arrived in London, and smiled up at him as he led her from the floor. Her eyes sparkled brightly as her amethyst earrings of soft, heavy silver. A present from her father.

"I hope your first ball in London is everything you anticipated," she said, or rather shouted over the noise of the assembly, "Your fellow officers look well-pleased."

"Indeed they do, and with good reason," The Captain replied, "It has been long since we last found ourselves in such lively company. I know I have no cause to regret our long journey to London."

His admiring gaze made Sophia feel how well she looked that evening; she preened, blushing beneath his eyes, hiding her bright cheeks behind her fan.

"Perhaps I may request the pleasure of a further dance later this evening?"

"Perhaps you may," she answered, embarrassed by how much she enjoyed this proof of her power over him, "But for now I pray you would excuse me; I see my sister."

"Of course," he bowed over her hand with military precision and, leaving her with a fond press, walked off to a group of his brother-officers standing in a red cluster bristling with bronze buttons and bright swords.

Sophia, cooling herself with a few idle waves of her fan, slipped between chatting couples, giggling girls, and gossiping dowagers to join Diana before the dance began anew.

She arrived not an instant too soon.

"Mr. Ludlow, you cannot be serious," it was clear Diana was attempting to sound scandalized, but she had not the energy to carry it off. Her accent of boredom was a flat note in the charged, lively air. "To assert such a thing. You really are too much."

Upon finding Sophia by her side, her high shoulders slumped with relief. "Sophia, you will not believe what Mr. Ludlow is saying; he tells me he has no intention of taking his father's seat in Parliament when he retires."

Sophia concealed her wince; no wonder Diana was wilting.

She did her best to intervene. "Truly, Mr. Ludlow? But your father has been such a steady voice in our government. Surely you would not let his legacy fade? I am sure you have many revolutionary ideas to bring to stodgy old Parliament."

"Oh, Miss Herrera," perhaps he thought he did her the greater honor by _not_ bowing, "as I have been laboring to explain to your sister, what is the earthly good of bothering myself with politics? Dry, dull topic...I had rather walk the length and breadth of Larkhill with my bore of an estate manager than spend a single morning debating busy nothings of taxes or tariffs and whatnot. Makes me yawn just to think of it," and he did yawn, enormously.

"It must be a trial to a mind as animated as yours," Sophia pulled a sympathetic frown, "But if you would excuse me, I fear I must borrow my sister for a moment."

"Excuse me," Diana bowed as Sophia tugged her away, "Duty calls."

"Yes, yes. You _will_ be back later? This party will be pointless indeed without you. And your sister, of course."

With nods and jumbled half-promises, Diana linked her arm with her sister's and they stole away into the crowd.

"You are an angel," Diana groaned, "I swear he found me the instant the first dance was done. He has not left my side since. Dancing of course was too plebeian for him...who insists on talking politics in a ballroom?"

"What of his sister? Generally she takes half the burden of managing him on an occasion such as this."

"For once, there are more than enough men to go around. Last I saw she was dancing with a dashing Lieutenant. Oh, Sophie, to see so many handsome men walk by while having one's ear gnawed off with chatter should be a punishment reserved only for the damned!"

"It is over now. Once you are away from him I have no doubt you can line up a partner for every dance from now until dinner. Only do not exercise your charms until you help me fix my headdress; the gauze is so fine it keeps slipping."

"Of course. But you should blame your lovely hair; it is finger than silk. Your pins are coming loose as well."

The girls struggled like trout swimming upstream against the crowd's current towards the ladies' retiring room. Music and laughter was muted within; conversations likewise were quiet. Each lady tactfully ignored the other. Lowered eyes slid away from torn hems, patchy rouge, or the occasional, muffled sob.

Diana's nimble fingers settled on Sophia's curls. "Shall I put in a flower or two? This nosegay has been troubling me all evening; I should be glad to sacrifice it on your behalf."

Sophia looked. The white lilies at Diana's bosom drooped sadly in the heat. "Thank you, but no. They look depressed. Where did you find such lilies anyway? Did you send Anne for them? I thought you were going to wear silk flowers this evening."

"I was, but a bouquet arrived at the last moment and I thought a hint of freshness would brighten me up."

"A bouquet? From whom?"

Diana's hand slipped; between her unsteady fingers, a lock of Sophia's hair slithered down her neck.

"Di?"

"Oh hell," she muttered, "My silly mouth. It was Mr. Cox, if you must know."

Sophia nearly squealed. "Mr. Cox? He sends you flowers when he has been scrupulous not to be seen in the same room with you for weeks? That is hardly friendly. What on earth does he mean by it?"

"He says he misses our friendship and regrets being so hasty in obeying the wishes of his parents."

Sophia turned, careless of her hair as it slipped half down her back. Her sister's face was empty, all emotion concealed behind a tightly-drawn curtain. Her fingers only betrayed turmoil; they clutched her hairpins so tightly Sophia feared they would tear her gloves and pierce her skin.

Smoothing Diana's hands with hers, Sophia murmured, "Are you well?"

"Yes. No. I—I cannot tell. I believe so," she shook her head, "I believe him, that is. Still, I cannot trust him."

"That is probably wise."

"He told me that he meant to be here tonight. So I wore his flowers. But of course he is _not_ here," Diana tore the flowers from her sash and ground them underfoot. "What a fool I am! I knew—I knew!"

"I did not know that you..." she held back the word 'love', "cared for him so."

"He was the first man I met in London that seemed to listen to what I had to say, rather than to use me as a vessel into which he might pour his own opinions," Diana's eyes were fixed on the twisted lilies. Her lips pressed thin. "But he is a coward. Sending me flowers with a concealed note rather than writing to me openly. How could I love a coward?"

Whether the question was rhetorical or not, Sophia did not venture to answer it.

"I suppose we cannot help where we love," she swallowed, "How many notes has he sent in this manner? With flowers?"

"Three. Do not look at me like that, Sophie. I have never replied to him; even I have more sense than _that_. He has a mother, after all, a mother whose proud jealousy has already driven us apart. If I sent him a letter, the news of it would be all over London in a week."

"It is not you I am angry with," Sophia's frown only deepened, "How dare he do this to you? Tell you openly he will not propose for fear of his inheritance—for _that_ is what he truly fears losing, not his parents' regard—yet seeks to keep his memory alive in you! I could kick him, truly I could."

Diana gave a wet chuckle. Though her hands shook, she returned to the task of twisting up Sophia's hair.

"Thank you. If he sends another note, I promise I will let you do just that."

"Good," Sophia sighed, looking at her sister's tearful face in the darkened mirror, "I wish you had told me some of this sooner. You know I should never have blamed you for any of this."

"I know," she said, clearing her throat, "It was only...well, in truth, I was ashamed of myself. I know that it is ridiculous, to care for him still. As long as I did not tell you, I did not have to admit it fully, even to myself."

"There is no shame in that," Sophia said. How many secrets had she buried within, praying that each time she did, it would be deep enough to keep her from the agony of recollection?

"You cannot say that. _You_ have never loved where you should not."

"I am sure you are right," she did not flinch, "Still, even your dull older sister has some mystery to her. And even though I do not feel the pain of disappointed affection, that does not prevent me from sympathizing with you. Do you think any pain you feel I do not?"

"No," Diana pressed her hot cheek to Sophia's shoulder, "No, you are too kind to me."

"Then take my advice; dry your tears, pinch your cheeks, and find a handsome officer to dance with. If that does not cure your heartache, at least it will quiet it awhile."

"Such sound counsel! Are you sure you have never needed it yourself?"

_I need it this very moment_. She grinned.

"Just be sure to fix my hair before you go."

* * *

Their coachman was asleep in his seat when the Herrera ladies finally left the party. Toddling down the street, leaning against each other for warmth and support, the frozen cobbles were icy fire through their thin slippers. Mrs. Herrera was white even in the faint light of distant stars; each of her breaths ended in a dry cough.

Diana had taken Sophia's advice so soundly on the subject of dancing that she had sprained her ankle an hour earlier yet insisted upon dancing on it all the same. Now she was a lame horse, sore and whimpering at the pain.

All in all, it was a party of grumps that left the ball, huddling inside their cold carriage like beasts clustered in a cave.

"I hope Grace has tea waiting for us," Sophia's shudders went down to the bone, "I cannot recall a colder night. It is enough to make one long for snow again; at least with snow the air was not so frigid, I think."

"Some tea would be divine," Mrs. Herrera coughed again, "This air is so dry it withers the lungs. How is your ankle, Diana?"

"It grates, Mama," she whined. Then, with a shrug and a smile, "But...I cannot regret it. It would have been a shame to lose the chance of dancing with so many fine men."

"I doubt they will be stationed here much longer, if the rumors of war in America are to be believed," Sophia remarked, lifting Diana's injured leg up onto the seat beside her, "The army cannot allow so many fine fighting men their liberty for so long."

As she pressed her hands to feel Diana's injury, she writhed. "A pity. Do be gentle, Sophie!"

"Well, you girls need not feel their loss when they go," a sly smile played on their mother's lips, "You shall have better to amuse yourselves with before long."

"Shall we?" Sophia asked, wry, "At the moment, it seems the best our circle has to offer is the Ludlow brothers. I do not think either of us would call them better, for all their wealth, than one sturdy, straight-talking officer."

"No indeed," Diana groaned, "Mr. Ludlow is a sucking squid; if Sophia had not come to rescue me, I should not have had a dance all evening."

"Such bears you are tonight! I see my news cannot wait another evening, though I was hoping to share it over breakfast."

"What news, Mama?"

"You were too occupied in the dance, but Lady Jersey was among the guests this evening. She came for only a few minutes, but she left a surprise for us."

"No," Sophia gasped, watching as her mother drew something from her reticule, "Mama, those...they _cannot_ be—"

With a shriek that made the horses whinny, Diana seized the papers. "These are vouchers! Vouchers to Almack's! Mama," she launched herself across the carriage and buried her mother in a strangling embrace, "you wonderful, marvelous creature!"

Mrs. Herrera laughed until her voice frayed. "Such shock, when I _told_ you I would get them!"

She reached one hand around Diana's bulk to squeeze Sophia's limp hand.

"I hope Madame Aubert can rush your orders, for next Wednesday evening you will have your true London debut. And when the whole city is raving over my two girls by next Thursday morning, I will have nothing else to wish for."


	25. XXV

**XXV**

"I declare, I am surprised your sister is the youngest. She has such a good temper around my little ones I would have thought she had some experience with children."

"It shames me to admit that though I helped raise Diana, she inherited our mother's talent with children. Though I love them," it was best to love _all_ children in any mother's presence, "I find them sometimes too rambunctious for me. Even Diana sometimes was too much for my patience. But your children are such angels; you must have an easy time with them."

Mrs. Mayfair did not answer the compliment, too busy smiling at her boy's laughter. Diana indeed was playing mother that afternoon, patiently listening to the children as they dragged her by her skirts through the glass-fronted conservatory that led away from the Mayfair's parlor. They had taken it upon themselves to educate this great, ignorant girl about the way their M'ma grew the flowers and how they were big enough now to carry her watering cans.

When Diana reached out to stroke an orchid's velvety petal, one of the girls tugged at her fingers and scolded that she 'munnit' touch. _M'ma says munnit touch._

Diana nodded solemnly and folded her hands behind her back. In that sweet, silly gesture, Sophia read her sister's future. She would be a wonderful, attentive, loving mother.

Even with one careful eye on her brood, Mrs. Mayfair was still a natural host; she filled Sophia's cup and added cream and two sugars, just as Sophia had taken it at first.

"I confess I am glad we have a moment alone, Miss Herrera. There is something I have long been wishing to discuss with you."

"Oh?"

"Yes," she said, fixing Sophia with a clear-eyed stare, "First, if I may express...I know why my husband has been to see you of late. My husband is an exceedingly moral man. I admire that in him, as well as his devotion to the elevated matters of the soul. Yet so much morality leaves very little room for humanity. I can only imagine how he has been behaving with you."

"I—" diplomacy, diplomacy, "Your husband is a very respectable man."

Mrs. Mayfair spoke quietly, still keeping a weather eye on her children, "He has relayed to me the essence of my brother-in-law's request as well as your response. You must have been surprised by Captain Mayfair's...indelicacy in turning to you as a resource?"

Until that moment, Sophia had not felt any insult or confusion, but as Mrs. Mayfair spoke, those feelings surfaced in her mind. "I was not," she thought it only fair to say, "The explanations he gave me for doing so seemed valid. Do you mean to tell me you suspect another reason?"

"I know another reason. Forgive me, this is very forward. But knowing Captain Mayfair—Richard—as I do, I think it only right you hear the entirety of his story."

"There is a story?" Sophia's curiosity roused and stretched itself, but dread crouched in her stomach, wary of what Mrs. Mayfair might divulge. Her speech was so out of character that it seemed an entirely different woman were seated across from her, wearing her face like a mask.

"Miss Herrera, I know this is very direct. But Captain Mayfair has known several grievous disappointments in his life; I cannot bear to stand idle witness to another."

Sophia was staggered. "I cannot imagine what you mean, especially as regards his request of me; he asked me to assist him in an investigation of a Spanish ship, nothing more. I was pleased to be able to help him."

"There is more in that he asked _you_ for the assistance," Mrs. Mayfair was not to be deterred by her guest's discomfort, "May I tell you something of his past? I fear that is the only way my meaning will become clear."

With spread hands, Sophia invited the recital.

"Richard is the second of four brothers. My husband, as you know, has inherited the family estate. The next two brothers are in the Navy; the last is a clergyman like Donald. Richard is the only one of all still unwed."

A gleam in Mrs. Mayfair's eye told Sophia she knew that her brother-in-law would rather have it otherwise. Sophia took a bite of cake in a forced attempt to appear less guilty.

"He was in love once. In love to the point of marriage. With a negro woman."

Sophia choked on her bite.

Mrs. Mayfair did not pause. "Miss Philomena Brown was a freed slave from the Colonies, assisting the late Mr. Mayfair in his efforts to promote abolition in England. Richard was rather young when they met for the first time; she was ten years his senior. I was engaged to Donald about the same time, so was able to witness their courtship firsthand."

"What," there were so many questions dancing on Sophia's tongue that she did not know which would leap out first, "What year was this?"

"'02. Back then, it was still quite dangerous to be an advocate for abolition. The tide would not turn to support the movement until several years later. Even Richard's father—staunch believer in abolition though he was—was stunned when Richard announced his intention to marry Miss Brown. It created a rift between the two men that remained unbridged until his death."

A clatter from the greenhouse made Sophia jump, but neither the children nor Diana returned.

Mrs. Mayfair took pity on her shock.

"I know how you must feel. Had a marriage occurred, you would certainly have heard of it. Richard and Miss Brown respected Mr. Mayfair enough to be discreet during their courtship and engagement, which made it easy for the family to conceal when it did not come off. What I am telling you now is a close-guarded secret, known to very few outside Newcastle."

"Forgive me, Mrs. Mayfair, but I still cannot understand _why_ you are telling me this."

Again that penetrating stare. "You rejected my brother-in-law because you did not know whether you could love him. By telling you this, I hope to prove to you that he above all men is a man worthy of love."

There was nothing to be said in reply. Mrs. Mayfair continued.

"Nothing my husband or his father could argue against the union mattered to Richard one whit. He loved Miss Brown, and Miss Brown he would have. Things became so fraught that even _she_ tried to persuade him out of loving her, but he would hear none of it."

"What happened then, to prevent the marriage?"

"Miss Brown disappeared. To this day, none of us have the slightest idea what happened to hear," the tears that shone in Mrs. Mayfair's eyes betrayed her worst suspicions, "There are as many grotesque possibilities as harmless ones. Perhaps she left to spare our family the devastation their marriage would bring. Perhaps she was taken by the same reactionaries who threw stones through Mr. Mayfair's windows and excoriated him in the papers, though I daily pray God that was not the case. We will likely never know."

"Perhaps," Sophia swallowed, "she was mistaken for an escaped slave and taken aboard a ship."

"All I can be certain of is this," Mrs. Mayfair finished, gently, "From the day Miss Brown vanished to the day he met you, I have never heard Richard speak of another woman with the slightest hint of passion. His steadfast heart seemed bound in eternity to his vanished fiancee, forcing him to endure a life of love given to a phantom."

"Mrs. Mayfair, I—"

"I do not blame you for rejecting him, not in the least! I do not even recommend that you marry him, if you are truly set against him. All I ask is that you consider his sad history and reflect on what it teaches you about his character. Richard is, above all, a man who loves. In defiance of everything."

Another clatter. With her back to the greenhouse, Sophia did not see what had happened, but it must have been serious; Mrs. Mayfair at once cooed and rose to tend to it.

All trace of the woman Sophia had seen vanished in the mother she became, and Sophia was left to reel alone in stunned silence.

* * *

"Sophia, what is wrong?" Diana's foot prodded hers under the carriage rug, "You have been gaping like a hooked fish ever since we left."

Blushing, Sophia closed her mouth. "Mrs. Mayfair told me some things that have given me much to think about, that is all."

"All? What could she have to tell you aside from little William's forwardness with nursery rhymes and Ella's insistence upon wearing only pink? She is a good woman, but it took only a little prodding for me to prefer her children's company to hers. I far prefer their inanities, and their sense of humor is far better."

Sophia offered a weak smile to this. Would to God Mrs. Mayfair had remained to her what she had once seemed!

"She has depths that would surprise you. They certainly caught me off-guard."

"To what end?" Diana studied her sister's face, "All that you and she have in common is the affection of Captain Mayfair, and—" Sophia flinched, "Oh, Sophie. Is _that_ what you discussed? Captain Mayfair's proposal?"

She reached for a lie, truly she did. The trouble was that there was no plausible excuse to be made for her agitation other than the truth. Or at the very least, as much of the truth as Diana was acquainted with. She was not ready to divulge the Captain's encounter with _El Bailarin_ , or her own role in its pursuit.

She nodded.

"How could she? The Captain has been gone above two months already; you had only known each other a short time when he _did_ propose," Diana clicked her tongue, "You and I have had no luck with our prospects, if they will neither take us nor let us go. How could she justify such interference on a subject far better dropped? And why now, of all times?"

"She said it was to give me a better understanding of his character, and to inform me that she thought that the Captain might still...cherish an affection for me."

"Interfering busybody!" Diana huffed. Then, "Did it do the trick?"

"You know I never thought ill of the Captain. Today has not changed my opinion in the slightest," Sophia shifted as _all_ the ways her opinions had changed occurred to her all at once, "He will always be a model of an honorable gentleman. If I could love him, I would."

Diana harrumphed again, crossing her arms. "Then she has only succeeded in upsetting you two days before our debut at Almack's! Put it out of your mind, dear. Frowning that way will give you wrinkles before you are much older."

Sophia chuckled at Diana's matronly fussing and promised she would do so at once. But it was a struggle to keep her feelings from her face as her mind churned restlessly over the story Mrs. Mayfair had relayed; moreover, Captain Mayfair's impeccable bravery in _all_ aspects of his life made shame prickle beneath her skin.

More than ever, Sophia felt herself a coward, as much a one as Mr. Cox, or, to a lesser extent, their mother. They at least had never had any pretensions to possessing more bravery than any other. Mr. Cox had retreated from his heart's desire; their mother glossed over unpleasantness she considered better left unseen.

But Sophia herself? She had pledged her money—what of it she could command without her father noticing, that is—to the abolitionist cause, but she would not sacrifice her self-esteem. She had lied, keeping things from the Captain because slavery was the foundation of her life and she could not admit it, nor permit anyone she respected to know it.

Diana, satisfied she had done her duty by comforting her sister, began talking away over their appointment at the milliner's that afternoon for their final fitting for their ballgowns for Wednesday. Talk of finery—though never a sure push at improving Sophia's spirits—was nothing but pure irritation that day.

Silk and velvet, when she was aflame with regret? Silver embroidery and swan's down, when she was trying to conquer her conviction of utter unworthiness, in being loved by a man so much her superior?

Thankfully Diana never required much participation from her sister when she was deep in considerations of dress. She carried her own conversation until they stopped at Lovett Street to fetch Mrs. Herrera on the way to their appointment, after which mother and daughter had too much to discuss to notice Sophia's abstraction. Her frown grew practically stormy, but neither one noticed, even when her wrinkles piled atop each other like thunderclouds.

This was unendurable. Sophia had become used to feeling ill-at-ease in her own mind, but this new awareness of her hypocrisy and cowardice was too much to bear.

She would not bear it.

By the time they arrived at Madame Aubert's, Sophia had made two resolutions:

First, that she would write to Captain Mayfair at the earliest opportunity to inform him of the full extent of what she knew. She would not spare her own character or her father's in the telling. If nothing else, her honest should cure the love Mrs. Mayfair still believed the Captain felt for her. A bitter benefit, perhaps, but a benefit nonetheless.

Second, she would write to Maria that very night and enlist her and Domingo—if they were willing—as spies against her father.

It was a daring campaign, one that set her heart pounding to consider, but for her own sanity, it had to be done.

If she ever wanted to meet her own eyes in the mirror again without blushing with mortification, she must be honest. And force others to be honest in turn.


	26. XXVI

**XXVI**

"Are you ready?"

"Are my loins well-girded, do you mean? I believe so. I have not forgotten anything from my toilette, and that is the greatest disaster I can imagine befalling either of us tonight. And there are so many pins in my bosom, my lace would never have the nerve to slip. I may end the evening with more pricks in me than a pincushion, but that is a fate I accept here and now. You?"

"I sorely need a few drops of your _sang-froid._ I have asked before, but how is it you manage to be so calm during such moments as these?"

The carriage rocked at a loose cobble, knocking Sophia's elbow against the side-glass. She swallowed a curse; it would not do to lose her temper at the very instant she had been praised for keeping it.

"It may be that in your own anxiety it is harder to see mine clearly. As it is, I cannot see what either of us have to be worried about tonight. Have we not both been tremendous successes at every picnic, soiree, dinner-party, or impromptu dance?"

"You should listen to her, my love," Mrs. Herrera smiled upon them both, her expression a beacon of light in their dark coach. "My daughters were born to shine among even the brightest lights of London."

"Thank you, Mama, but I must say I think your perception is rather slanted," Diana's lips pursed at the pair of them, twitching irritably at their playful ease. "Until this moment, the only gentry we have met have been relatives of yours or friends of Lady Worthington's. The former group _must_ love us, and no one of the latter could be friends with such a relentless bully and yet retain any sense of quality."

"Now, that is a bit too hard," their mother remonstrated, "Your aunt may have her foibles, but she is a respectable woman nonetheless."

"Surely not in the same class as Lady Lamb or Lady Jersey," Diana refused to be comforted, " _They_ are true gentry."

"I pray you need never learn that such paragons of good breeding are rather more rare among the _ton_ than they should be. But even the mention of those two ladies should put you at your ease. They prove that you belong among the assembly at Almack's as much as anybody."

"Perhaps," yet it was clear she was not convinced.

Sophia spoke up, "It is not like you to doubt your own worth, Di. Trust our mother's judgment, and mine too. Perhaps my word carries little weight, but I have known you for far longer than our few short months in London. No one could have less to fear from an evening party than you."

"Thank you," she paused, "Though you suffer from the same bias as Mama. You must permit me, I fear, to feel my nerves as I must tonight. Until we are in the carriage and on the road home, I will not know an instant's peace."

A tart remark soured Sophia's tongue, but she kept it behind her teeth. If there was one thing that might take her sister's mind off her worries, it was her first unmitigated success of the evening.

"The embroidery you ordered is exquisite. Those flowers make your eyes almost violet by candlelight."

"I thought they might," a furtive smile appeared through the gloom, as Diana consciously smoothed the elaborate stitches that glittered at her bosom, "But I wish I had your hair. Mine is not quite golden enough to shine while wearing all white."

This was a piece of false modesty too outrageous to pass without contradiction, and both Mrs. Herrera and her older daughter took great pleasure in doing so.

Diana enjoyed every moment of it.

* * *

Almack's shone like a many-faceted jewel, light gleaming from every window, streaming from crystal chandeliers tiered with layers of fresh candles. Elegant silhouettes glided behind glass, perfect specimens of rank, class, and breeding, the ladies in shades of white and ivory, the men in gray, blue, and black. The lively strains of a country-dance echoed dully from behind the enormous double doors. Even so, it was enough to set both girls' hearts skipping a beat.

In a flash, hardly feeling their feet, they were up the stairs and their sacred vouchers, products of many weeks' work and symbols of all their hopes, were examined carefully by a liveried butler. He bowed them into Almack's hallowed halls, and a smiling maid curtsied them along into the retiring room, where they shed their pelisses and muffs. Shaking with impatience and nerves Sophia would still not admit to feeling, she helped her sister to freshen her curls and dab on another drop of lavender fragrance.

Her hands trembled, sending a bead of scent dripping from her finger to spatter on the waxed parquet floor.

"Are you ready?"

Sophia sighed. The grin on her sister's face told her she had missed none of it.

"Of course. It is only that I am rather cold. I think these windows may allow more of a draft than they ought."

"Of course."

"So smug!" she glowered, "Have you not a word of comfort for the sister who spent the past ten minutes comforting _you_?"

"But Sophie, surely you know that you have been just as great a success as I have been at...oh, how did you put it? Every picnic, soiree, dinner-party, and...oh, remind me."

"'Impromptu dance', I believe I said. But you are quite right," she tossed her chin and regarded her drawn lips in the large glass opposite. Surely her glow was from excitement and not perspiration? "There is _nothing_ to fear. Certainly not from the cream of London society and all the Assembly's noble patronesses," she swallowed, fussing with a curl that refused to obey, "Perhaps my icy calm has been a touch optimistic."

Diana took pity at last, after a fashion, and laughed. Threading their arms together, she pulled a ridiculous face into the mirror that made Sophia choke on giggles. Her pale cheeks flushed rosy, and life and animation returned with vigor.

Her sister nodded approvingly, studying their reflections. "There. We are ready."

"I should hope so," their mother regarded them with a raised brow, from where she sat on a low chaise by the door, "for if you delay much longer, the assembly will be over."

"We come, Mama," Sophia said, hugging her sister closer. Arm-in-arm still, they stepped out into the foyer.

* * *

The ballroom was on the second floor, its doors thrown wide to allow a constant stream of young people to flow freely from the dance to where Almack's famously meager refreshments were served in the adjoining drawing room.

They entered, floating gracefully as the clouds their gowns resembled. Clothed in matching dresses of white gauze embroidered with elaborate curlicued flowers in shimmering gold and bluish silver respectively, Sophia and Diana were a perfect match for all the doe-eyed, fragile-boned girls scattered about the edges of the room, shadowed by their double-chinned chaperones or their shrill mothers. Among these fine specimens of womanhood drifted aimless, heavy-eyed young men, their upright figures wilted with boredom.

Into this crowd the Herrera sisters strode, but the entrance they had hoped would have the grandeur of a queen approaching her throne, however, was simply one more note in a rather dull refrain.

They had not taken more than a dozen paces into the room before realizing that there was no more variety to be had than this.

"This is the cream of London society?" Sophia glanced about, searching for one lively face, one gay voice. But it seemed Almack's was too well-bred for any such exuberance.

Diana shushed her as her smile faltered at the edges. "I believe," she muttered from the corner of her mouth, "we have been to memorials more lively than this."

Sophia bit her tongue, but her cheeks flushed redder still with the effort to keep herself from bursting. At least the glow illuminated her complexion and made her eyes shine, which is more than could be said for many of society's youngest debutantes, who seemed ghastly under excessive candlelight.

Still, what was beauty's good in a group such as this? What was the good of being worth looking at if no one worthwhile was there to look?

Mrs. Herrera at least showed no sign of the disappointment that wracked her daughters' hearts. Leading the way into the room, she bowed to women she had known during her own seasons in London, raptures spilling from her lips as she took in the familiar surroundings, unchanged after so many years. She had been a debutante at Almack's; its tired elegance was comforting and beloved. In her mind, she was seventeen once more, bursting with youth's first, freshest bloom.

For her sake, Sophia and Diana were all smiles. By once glance of silent sympathy, they agreed at least that it was good their mother should enjoy the night.

However, their entrance—though disappointing—was by no means unremarked. Their tall, well-formed figures, becomingly attired in the latest style in the finest materials, not to mention the strands of pearls woven into their waving tresses, sent a mutter of bitter admiration through the feminine crowd.

To the other women in the room, they were unwelcome rivals. To the eligible gentlemen whose eyes were clear of wine's fog but clouded by _ennui_ instead, there was little to differentiate them from the rest of the girls gliding about like ghostly butterflies. Of the men that _did_ regard them, their eyes lingered first on their pearls, reading their fortunes in their jewelry. Sophia's lip curled; gladly was she distracted as their mother spoke.

"Is it not marvelous, girls?" Mrs. Herrera sighed, "I dreamed of Almack's for years after leaving London. To see you here," there were tears in her eyes, "is a dream too sweet for words. I must introduce you to everyone I know."

"I am glad, Mama. It is lovely."

A lie, but a gentle one. One that avoided pain and conveyed pleasure. A lie far more palatable than many she had told of late. Mrs. Herrera did not seem to hear her; she was already speaking to another old friend who had descended upon them.

Diana said nothing. Her hand contracted about Sophia's wrist, chafing the skin beneath her glove as a shackle would upon a slave's. With effort, Sophia kept herself from starting, but she stared, wondering, at what her sister had seen.

When her curious eyes landed upon Mr. Cox, standing at the other side of the ballroom, she had only to be thankful that Diana had not cried aloud.

Mr. Cox shifted upon his feet as though hot coals were alight beneath his heels. His eyes searched above the feathered headdresses parading endlessly beneath them. It was such a pathetic image that Sophia almost laughed; when his gaze landed upon Diana and a grin spread across his anxious face, the laughter strangled in her throat, throttled by constricting rage.

"Do _not_ go to him," now it was her turn to restrain her sister, "What will Mama say?"

"I will not," she moaned through teeth frozen in a genteel smile, "Help me not to. Oh, he is waiting for me. I know it."

"He is doing more than that."

Sophia moved sharply before her sister as Mr. Cox approached. Thus thwarted, hope drained from his pale face and pleading eyes, but he had yet too much of it to be entirely dissuaded from his object.

He gave them both a smart bow. "It is a pleasure to see you here tonight, Miss Diana. And Miss Herrera, of course. Miss Diana," he had the sense to hesitate, but Sophia still discerned an infuriating arrogance in his eyes, "I wonder if I might beg the favor of your first two dances?"

"My sister is indisposed for certain company, Mr. Cox," Sophia turned her shoulder to him, "I fear you must excuse her."

"Oh," he wilted as a flower beneath a hard spring frost, "forgive me. Well, if you are indisposed for dancing, perhaps we might take some refreshment together?"

"Pray excuse us," she did not grace him with a glance as she steered Diana away.

Yet Diana did not recover even as he faded into the distance. Twice Sophia caught her looking back, a winsome expression transforming her face into a vision of perfect loveliness. She could only pray Mr. Cox was not looking, or they were all doomed. Diana could entrance a statue just then, let alone a human man.

"Do not let go my arm. I am afraid I _must_ follow him. Did you not hear how he pleaded?"

"I heard. Only remember what he would ask you to do. This is just another cowardly tactic to prevent you from pursuing the life you want. If he has not the courage to defy his parents for you, he cannot truly be in love with you. And if he _were_ ," she finished grimly, "even then you might not be fit companions for each other."

Diana could not reply. She only nodded once, her smile succumbing to misery; supporting it a moment longer became insufferable.

"Di," Sophia murmured, plucking at her glove, "Lady Jersey."

Mrs. Herrera was descending upon them with her ladyship in tow, thanking her effusively for the honor of issuing them their vouchers.

"I attended one of my first grand balls here," they heard her say as they drew nearer, "I could almost think myself living that night once more. Nothing has changed."

"We pride ourselves on maintaining a standard of elegance and good taste," her ladyship replied, "I am so glad to hear that standard has not slipped."

"With you as its patroness, how could it?" Mrs. Herrera drew Sophia to her with an outstretched hand, "But here they are! I hope you remember my daughters, Sophia and Diana?"

Forced to participate in all societal niceties, Diana revived. Even Sophia could hardly believe how gracious she was, how natural and grateful as she curtsied and thanked Lady Jersey. Only the pallor of her cheeks could betray the chaos trapped within her, constrained as a tempest behind a glass window.

Caught between her worry for Diana and her disappointment in Almack's, Sophia was conscious she did herself less credit as she helped carry on the conversation with Lady Jersey. Her remarks were awkward and constrained. If ever she had wished to simply turn and run from everything, she longed for it then.

At least their trial was not long prolonged. Her ladyship, pleased at her own good nature by their assurances of delight, soon left them to the pleasures of the assembled company. _She_ , as she told them, was pressed by engagements elsewhere; shortly after she left them, she departed Almack's altogether.

Given the early hour, Sophia could not help but suspect her attendance at all was only to keep up appearances. A woman such as Lady Jersey would have far more interesting invitations at her disposal than this.

Mrs. Herrera had no such concerns. They made a round of the room together, bowing and smiling, after which she seemed perfectly content to cede the floor to her daughters, urged them to circulate with the young people.

"They must certainly be better company for you than such an old lady as I," she chuckled.

"Mama," Diana's voice was strained, "please do not say such things. You are dearest, most wonderful, kindest—"

She choked.

Sophia stepped in. "I will make sure she dances, Mama. But first, perhaps a glass of..." wine was not offered at Almack's, as drunkenness was decidedly inelegant, "lemonade?"

"No," Diana's bright eyes fluttered, "I had much rather dance. I see Mr. Trevorrow; I am sure he will take me."

With the grim resignation of one headed to the gallows, Diana turned about and plunged into the whirl. It took Sophia a moment to regain her side.

"I do not think you are in a fit state to dance," she whispered, "Especially with a man whose good opinion you wish to retain. Please, take a moment. We will have a bite of cake and some water. Surely such bland refreshments cannot help but settle you."

"I do not need to be settled," Diana hissed, "Or managed. I need—"

Disregarding her, Sophia tugged Diana off her straight course and into the alcove of a curtained window. In the shadows, Diana pressed her gloves to her face, a shaking, struck child.

"I know, my darling. Oh, I know."


	27. XXVII

**XXVII**

Sophia drew the candle nearer, its wavering light barely sufficient to read the chicken-scratch numbers Domingo had copied from her father's ledger. Written and posted in haste, there had been no time for him to mind such niceties as proper penmanship. Unfortunately, that made Sophia's work all the more difficult. Some of the figures bore greater resemblance to hieroglyphics than numerals.

Once she had deciphered the message to her satisfaction, she finished making her own copy of the entry, which was a log of goods received in kind from a captain in the employ of one of her father's friends. Such an exchange would not have been out of place save for the fact that Senor Panza had emigrated to Cuba the very month after the ban prohibiting the import of slaves to Spain had been issued. It was exceedingly convenient timing, too much so to go unremarked.

The very thought of Senor Panza made Sophia's flesh curdle. A bilious, overstuffed man, he never seemed to be without an oil slick of perspiration shimmering on his skin. It lingered in the folds of his rippling stomach, festering into a stench that preceded his arrival by twenty paces or more. Even her father had kept him from his family as much as possible, but Sophia recalled some afternoons when the man had presented himself at their home in Cadiz, as crude in manner as he was unctuous in person.

If Senor Panza were still connected in any way to her father's trade, she knew in her heart it had to do with the continued export of slaves to the Spanish colonies. Yet did it then follow that Senor Panza was acting upon her father's orders? Or was he simply repaying old favors with soiled money?

There was no proof either way. Payment of goods—provided such goods were not slaves—was perfectly legal. Mr. Herrera had no obligation to return such money or report it, even if he knew its source. After all, the slave trade was still permitted where this transaction had taken place. Distasteful and immoral, certainly. _That_ would never alter. But not illegal.

Unless slaves were taken from her father's ships off the African coast, or stepped off them onto Spanish soil, or were found housed in warehouses owned by him, no charges could be brought against him there.

This did not mean the trade was without risk as it formerly had been. Now with the West Africa Squadron in service, taking slaves from Africa was no longer an affair without consequence. A captured slave-ship and captain could be taken to court in Sierra Leone and subject to its laws.

Sophia paused, eyes sliding vacantly over the numbers formed beneath her pen.

Could she subject her own father to such a proceeding?

When she tried to imagine a prison in such a land as Sierra Leone, her fulsome imagination failed her. Dirt and disease rose in rotting horror in her mind's eye; a dark cell bereft of any touch of warmth or kindess. Despite everything, despite the blighted moral sense that had permitted her father to build his fortune and raise a family on stolen, broken bodies...there was still a twisted, aching love for him in her heart. That love cried to her now, in a voice so loud she almost clapped her hands over her ears.

"There is no proof," she muttered, though the deadened early hours left no one but her to hear the words.

She knew not whether to be relieved at the thought.

For distraction, painful though it would be, she took up Domingo's packet once more, re-reading the letter she had already memorized.

_My brave one,_

_would that this letter had better tidings to bear, but our quarry eludes us like shadows lost in the night. What little I can offer at this time is only more of what we already know; that your father has been most careful to avoid any discovery of his true trade. Daily I labor, keeping account of the goods and chattel entering his warehouses, and daily I come to realize that the profit I see does not match the expenses your father incurs._

_Though you, your sister, and your mother have left Cadiz, his extravagance only grows. In addition to the houses in Cadiz and Valencia, he has purchased wholesale your family's former summer house in Cartagena. Nor do all these expenses take into account the sum he spends by the month for your family's maintenance in London._

_Your sister has brought me the information of the household expenses. Miss Maria has always impressed me with her principles and religious feeling, but I had no idea she had a heart of so much courage. She is a true partner to us in this endeavor, taking even greater risks than I at times to find the information your father has so cleverly concealed. Forgive me for having taken so long to acknowledge what you always told me of her merits; rest assured I see them now as ever you could._

_As it is my turn to send your our accumulated discoveries, I have the task of relaying her love to you as well. She thanks you for the embroidered handkerchiefs you sent, but begs you attend on your bullion knots. Once caught on my watch chain and pulled loose the other day._

_Having done so, I take the chance of including a word of my own—_

She stopped. What followed was a full half-page of romantic effusions, such that would once have stirred her blood into a frenzy. That Domingo's words this time left her cold was puzzling at best and mortifying at worst. When had his memory lost its power over her? How was it that walking alone with my by the shore had once been her most cherished memory, when now she could not bear to see him place her name next to such charming words as 'darling' and 'cherished one' and 'beloved'.

If her love was so flimsy, how had it once burned so strong?

When wading through seas of his foamy flatteries, Sophia more and more often found herself reflecting upon Captain Mayfair. He had offered her no such words of praise; he had barely even spoken of love when he addressed her. Yet he had spoken of respect, of admiration. Of kindred natures. He had grasped the full measure of her value in a way—but so had Domingo. Did she only think of one over the other because he was nearer to her now? Was she a child, then, to forget what she valued once it passed from her sight?

Even if she were no longer a child, she might still behave as once by refusing to analyze thoughts and feelings that distressed her. She did so then. It was a weakness, but it was an hour that permitted her some weakness.

The clock in the hall chimed three. Time at last to be done. These late nights—or early mornings—were beginning to wear her energy down as sand wears beneath waves. Every week, when the post arrived from Spain, Sophia had not only to conceal such thick packets of letters from her mother and sister but also to combine all the trickles and dabs of intelligence they provided into one coherent whole.

Their campaign against her father was only one month advanced, and already she was beginning to doubt their chances of success.

Once Sophia had neatly arranged the letters and sealed away her own ledgers in a box in her closet, she removed from it in turn a packet of plain biscuits, a simple kettle, a teacup, and a box of tea. Filling the kettle with water from her porcelain pitcher on the nightstand, she nestled it in the coals to heat. As it did, she untied the silk ribbon from the biscuits and swallowed two in hasty hunger.

A hot cup of tea always helped settle her stomach and calm her mind.

A thought struck her with sudden bitter humor. Less than a year she had been away from Spain, yet how English she had become!

* * *

"I tell you, I do not think I can bear it any longer."

"Come now, it is only another fortnight before we leave for Lady Worthington's estate. Surely two balls is not too great a sacrifice to spare Mama's feelings?"

"You, lecture me about sparing Mama's feelings? Perhaps I would take your counsel to heart if you were also under constant siege from a fop like Mr. Delaney! He hounds my steps as though I were an exhausted fox. In his mind, my fortune is the pelt he desires, valuable enough to pay for his velvet waistcoats and bejeweled shoe-buckles!"

"Perhaps you would," Diana replied, concealing her sly smile behind her teacup, "but I should hope you would trust yourself in this matter, if you do not trust me. When we were children, how often did you give me the very same advice? 'Oh Di, won't you stay at home tonight? Mama is worried you are too young for a house party'."

Sophia frowned like a toad at her sister's shrill mimicry.

"'Oh Di, stop visiting your friends in such rough parts of town. Mama hates it when there is talk'. 'Diana, I beg you would not be so rude to that boring pudding of a curate, Mr. Bellows'."

"I never called him boring," Sophia interrupted at last, "or pudding. Although I will not disclaim your accuracy."

"Precisely like sailor's duff, was he not?"

"White and puffy with tiny sunken raisins for eyes!"

They laughed, and sisterly kindness was restored.

"Well, if you wish to avoid tonight's assembly, you should begin to feign illness right away. In fact, you should not even finish your breakfast; Mama finds nothing so alarming as the sight of unfinished toast."

"No," Sophia sighed, "You are—or rather I _was—_ right. We are so close to escaping London for the year, it is best to make no trouble when we will soon be free. I would not mind it if Mama did not take our failures so much to heart. She wilts a little after every assembly."

"It _is_ hard to see her so distressed. I never suspected she had her heart set so firmly on our achieving matrimony during our first season. I thought _I_ was the social climber, but her ambition quite outstrips mine."

"She only wishes to see us secure, somewhere above the taint of our father's money. A good marriage not only ensures our futures, but protects against our past."

"Hmm," Diana's furrowed brow gave a silent clue to the pain that still wracked her at the thought of what their poor beginnings had cost her. Mr. Cox was a constant irritating presence at Almack's, a flea she could neither dislodge or ignore. At the sight of him Diana had not the will to exercise the fullness of her charm on any other object; her time at Almack's had been marked by less male attention that Sophia's, which strange phenomenon was a first in their shared social lives.

Sophia finished her breakfast with mechanical bites. Draining her tea, she rose.

"And where are you off to so early?"

"A note arrived yesterday for Hatchard's. My order for two or three new French novels is ready; I thought a walk would do me good before the assembly tonight. The weather is so much milder now that I am no longer the only person taking a stroll," if there was also a note for Maria stashed in her reticule waiting for the post, no one need know but her, "Can I bring you anything from the shop? A new biography?"

"No," Diana sat back in her chair, pouring herself another cup of tea, "I have not had the time to read the last novel you brought me. Would you fetch me some marshmallows or sugar-plums, if your path happens to cross Gunter's?"

"Of course. Though you had best hide them in your room if I do get them. I bought a box of mixed sweets two weeks ago and I think Grace ate half of them."

"If she touches any of _mine_ ," Diana smiled grimly, "I will have Mama dismiss her."

* * *

On the street, out of view of the house, Sophia withdrew the brief note she had received the previous day.

_Miss Herrera,_

_If you have the time tomorrow, I should be glad to see you. A letter has arrived, the contents of which will be of particular interest to you._

_Yours,_

_Mrs. Mayfair_

Sophia folded the note, tucked it back into her reticule, and hailed a passing hackney-coach.


	28. XXVIII

**XXVIII**

In some respects, Mrs. Mayfair was precisely what her plump, sprigged muslin exterior suggested. Getting directly down to business was out of the question and not even to be considered, no matter how gently Sophia tried to nudge them in that direction. On the table between them was a genteel buffer of tea service, sugar, clotted cream, and trays of scones and jam tarts.

There was also news, the news of a devoted mother. Lucy was such a tomboy Mrs. Mayfair could never keep her stockings clean, and heaven knew where the girl was _finding_ all the bugs she insisted upon keeping in her pockets. David meanwhile, was certain to ruin his eyesight by the time he was old enough to comprehend the true meaning in the books of sermons he doggedly forced his way through. Had Miss Herrera ever heard of such antics?

Judging it best to flatter Mrs. Mayfair's feelings—else they might never have done—Sophia admitted she never had. Mrs. Mayfair must have the patience of a saint to endure it all! To all else, she assented and praised with nods and smiles, each one twisting the tension inside her another notch. By the time Mrs. Mayfair set her cup down and tried to refill her guest's, Sophia was wound so tight that she had taken neither a bite nor a sip for fully ten minutes.

When her hostess at last considered her duty done and handed over a seawater-scented letter, Sophia had imagined twenty or more different stories it might contain. Each one, of course, worse than the last. The letter lay in her palm, trembling with possibility.

"I have not read it," Mrs. Mayfair began, dabbing some raspberry tart crumbs from her lips, "Nor does Mr. Mayfair know it has arrived. In my last letter to Richard, I told him that any further correspondence to you had better pass through me."

"Are you certain? I would hate for any misconceptions to arise regarding my relationship with the Captain, or to place you in an awkward position between us."

"I understand completely. However, I do not believe you have much to fear from the letter containing anything very personal. Richard authorized me to read it in order to assuage any of my qualms in assisting the two of you to converse. My brother-in-law is a forthright man," she winked, "but there are limits even to his candor."

"Then I take it you trust to our innocence?" She did not mean to sound arch, but it flavored her tone nonetheless. It was hard to forget Mr. Mayfair's constant stream of silent accusations.

"I am a mother, Miss Herrera. I know when a child is lying to me."

"Am I the child," she asked, "or is your brother-in-law?"

She chuckled. "I beg you to be easy, Miss Herrera. I did not mean to be so forward, or to offend you, if I have," at Sophia's shake of the head, she continued, "Richard is older than I by several years, and you have a maturity beyond your age. Certainly _I_ had not your poise when I was two and twenty."

Sophia forgave herself for not correcting this flattering assumption.

"I only offer my assistance now because I believe marriage and children give one an insight into human nature, I suppose. Perhaps you will think me foolish."

"No," curiosity, her motive force, grew ever-stronger. The only married woman Sophia had ever been intimate with was her own mother, and though they shared many secrets, there was often an embargo between them on the subject of Mrs. Herrera's marriage. Sophia's relationship with her father was not such that she wanted details about their courtship.

The glimpse Mrs. Mayfair offered into the mind of a married woman therefore was tempting in the extreme.

There was no way to convey this curiosity to Mrs. Mayfair—who remained a practical stranger, for all they were engaged in a strange complicity regarding Captain Mayfair—in any way that would satisfy the rules of etiquette.

Her tongue pressed at the implacable wall of her sealed lips, longing to ask what she dared not.

Mrs. Mayfair meanwhile, with a keen light in her eyes that showed her for the still-young woman she was, seemed to long for the question to come.

When it did not, the light guttered and she drew back.

"Well then. I understand, of course," she cleared her throat, rearranging the neatly-ordered tray on the table between them, "If you have a response to the letter, send me a note. I will be pleased to include it in my next to Richard."

Sophia regretted her own circumspection, but the moment had passed. "Thank you," was all she said, "If you will excuse me, we have an engagement this evening at Almack's."

"Ah, Almack's. I never attended, myself. I was not of high enough family to be admitted. Nor would it have mattered, I suppose. Mr. Mayfair was not fond of balls; we met first at a garden party hosted by a friend of my mother's. He told me all about orchids."

Imagining the tall, raw-boned young man Mr. Mayfair must have been, choked by his over-starched clerical collar, holding forth in his dry, pedantic tone on the qualities of orchids was a ridiculous image. Some part of the humor she could not hide must have shone forth, as Mrs. Mayfair laughed and said:

"Yes, it _is_ an odd thought, is it not? But he was, and still is, passionate about flowers. The greenhouses here are more his doing than mine; half of what we grow there are projects of his. His passion on one subject made me believe he would be equally romantic in others. In some cases," her smile turned soft and private, "I was not mistaken."

Now Sophia felt herself blushing. Mrs. Mayfair dropped her eyes.

"Donald and Richard are very similar at...at the root of things. Where they begin, if you take my meaning. They do not speak often of love, but _where_ they love, they do so intently."

She knew not what to say. Mrs. Mayfair was still happily introspective, dimples winking on her plump cheeks as she ruminated on pleasant memories. In this state of abstraction, she barely seemed to notice when Sophia made her adieus.

Perhaps, Sophia reflected as she slowly made her way down the street, Mrs. Mayfair _had_ given her insight she lacked. Perhaps, love arose not from grand gestures or declarations, but from a myriad little moments. Perhaps, love grew from nothing more than a kind or honest word sown in rich, waiting soil.

* * *

"Miss Herrera, you lovely vixen! I swear you pierce my heart and soul with those flashing, dark eyes. Like a midnight storm it is, your furious glance!"

Sophia ignored the tall, spare figure clad like a beeswax candle in yellow velvet as it fell in step beside her. How unfortunate that she could not also scrub her ears of his flowery prose.

"Indeed, Mr. Delaney," she took no trouble to be heard over the music; he had heard this refrain from her many times before, "I do not know why you insist on such language. I do not know where you find fury; I was not aware I was looking at _you_ at all. I am only attempting to find my sister."

"How you make me laugh," he paused, actually paused, for an affected, breathy chuckle, "But allow me to assist you in this endeavor. As in all things, I desire to be your guide and protector. It wounds me to see you so distress yourself."

"There is no distress in the matter. I believe she has gone to the ladies' retiring room, so I fear in this instance your ambition is thwarted. You cannot guide me _there_."

She set off with neither nod nor curtsy. Mr. Delaney did not feel her impertinence as anything more than bait on a hook. His long legs were a curse; she could not have outpaced him unless she ran.

"Ah! My poor heart," he pressed the organ in question with a glove of yellow kid-leather, "You do tax it so with your continual evasions. But I will have you for my partner later this night; I shall not let go your hand until you have promised me."

Sophia had just gained the door when his hand closed about her wrist; she ground her teeth in frustration, but quickly allowed adversity to play to her advantage. The crush at the entryway pushed them close together.

Just as his lips parted for an undoubtedly lascivious remark designed for all to hear, she searched about with her foot. Finding his shoe with her slipper, she ground down on his toe with her heel, mashing hard as if his foot were a cockroach she meant to squash.

His yelp was doubtless the most satisfying sound his pouting lips had ever produced.

"Oh dear," Sophia cried, taking back her hand, "Forgive me!"

Then, ducking underneath the feathered headdress of a bustling chaperone, she scuttled out of sight and disappeared through the open doors.

Diana was not to be found in the retiring room. Nor was Mrs. Herrera. Sophia knew they were not; her sister was still among the dancing couples, while their mother was entertaining herself as usual with cake, lemonade, and the other matrons gathered around the sideboard. Either place was too available to Mr. Delaney. She could not close him out of any conversation with either hints or open requests. He willfully took her for a flighty woman and refused to hear that she had no desire to be in his company. This was the only space he dared not go.

For the first time that night, Sophia was alone, gloriously alone. Not even a weeping ingenue shared the quiet room with her. Only her own reflections kept her company, three dim, ghostly figures with drooping flowers crowning their bowed heads. Moving heavily across the room to a low chaise, she allowed herself one blissful moment of utter collapse.

Exhaustion was not something that occurred to her now only at the end of a long day. No, now it was part of her, woven into her bones and drifting in her blood. She woke tired, each step she took, no matter how small, sapped what little energy she mustered until moments such as these inevitably arrived. Moments where it seemed no longer possible to stand upright, where moving either forward or backward seemed impossible.

She wanted to go home. Not home in Lovett Street; that would _never_ be home. Nor was home found in Lady Worthington's estate in Surrey, where they were condemned shortly to go. Already she dreaded the thought of strawberry-gathering parties, card-parties, and country balls attempting grandeur enough to ape those left behind in London.

No. Rest would not be found there. Rest was found at home; home was in Cadiz, where she might walk along the shores, the boulevards, the public squares. Where she might shop in the crowded, bustling markets, shoulder-to-shoulder with chattering _abuelas_ in their intricate lace _mantillas_. Where she might be part of the crowd, blending into laughter and music, to be unremarked and unremarkable.

She wished for rough salt on her tongue from the breath of the sea exhaled over her face, while riding along the coast. Most of all, she wished for loneliness; the great, gasping loneliness of rock caverns or sea-cliffs, where she would not tread on another's footseps for miles at a stretch.

Tears pressed against her closed eyelids, a flood pressing hard against a frail, mortal dam.

One day soon, she might find a secret enough space to let her tears fall and lance the poisonous swelling in her heart. But not here, not now. Alone as she was, she felt unseen hundreds pressing against her, felt their greedy eyes searching her face for any weakness to ridicule and taunt.

"Sophie?"

She jerked upright, stays catching her hard in the ribs. "Oh! Mama! What a fright you gave me."

"I am sorry," Mrs. Herrera sat beside her daughter, searching her face. Sophia had not the energy to conceal her reddened eyes or bitten lips. "It seems I have more than this to apologize for, however. Dearest, what is wrong?"

Sophia took a breath and choked on her lie. "I—I would like to go home, Mama. Coming tonight was folly. I had not the spirits for it."

"So I have seen. Poor child, this season has worn us all out, has it not?" Gentle hands stroked Sophia's falling curls. "Diana ever more cheerful, you ever more strained, and I...well, I have had few complaints."

Even this brief speech betrayed her. Mrs. Herrera's voice broke at the last word.

"We will all feel better when we are back in the liberty and leisure of the countryside."

"Yes, of course," Sophia agreed, "Tell me, is there no chance we might visit Spain this year?"

"Spend a week or more traveling when we have not been in England a full year? Do you miss your father so much?"

"No," she allowed, "I miss Maria, of course. But," Mrs. Herrera pulled away; she always did when their half-sister was mentioned, "this is only—only some foolishness on my part. Hiding from a party in a closet! You are right; all we need is a little reprieve to put us all to rights. Do you think I shall be very much missed from our excursion to Hyde Park tomorrow?"

"Perhaps not, but shall you stay at home? Alone?"

"No," it was only half a lie, "but as we are to leave fur Surrey in two weeks, there are many friends I would see before we go. I have neglected Rose abominably."

"Well, I am sure that the younger Mr. Ludlow and Mr. Delaney will mark your absence. Though that will be good for both of them, I daresay. Stay at home and rest, dear. I shall square things with your sister."

Mrs. Herrera drew her daughter near and settled a kiss on her forehead.

"Yes. Have a good, long visit with Miss Wright. You will be better for it."

Better for what, Sophia wanted to ask. What awaited her that would be better than what they had already experienced? But she embraced her mother, however little ease she had given her. The burden of her secrets was still a lead weight on her back and a dark veil before her eyes.


	29. XXIX

**Volume III**

**XXIX**

Though the hour was merely one beyond breakfast, heat lay in a stifling miasma over the wide, exposed fields of Lady Worthington's park, a wraith on the prowl for any unfortunate soul who might have ventured out-of-doors in the vain hope of finding a cool sigh of fresh air. Such a one was Sophia, and even her hardy constitution—moreover her craving for pure, sweet silence—was sorely challenged by the heat that pressed against her mouth as though it would boil the very air in her lungs.

She lingered under a stand of elms, left towering in lonely pride when a long-forgotten ancestor of Lady Worthington's had first cleared the land and made a farm of it. All that remained of that forgotten farm now were fields that produced nothing but admiration in her visitors at the sight of so much land lying fallow. In place of vigorous crops that might have thrived under bright country sunlight were manicured hedgerows, an extensive shrubbery in which gardeners spent more time than the house's inmates, and stands of flowers in which ladies' maids gathered gargantuan bouquets that studded every table and sideboard within.

Not that one had to remain indoors to appreciate the bounties of nature that fringed the house on all sides. There were five miles of walks encompassing the estate entire. The gardens sandwiched between the house and the lake behind it were extensive, renowned throughout the county. But in such narrow compass solitude was impossible to find, which was why Sophia found herself a mile from the house, staring down on it now. She, Diana, and their mother were hardly the only guests their aunt had accumulated to ease her boredom in the country. One too often found oneself cheek-by-jowl with a collection of cousins, clergymen, and cads.

Sophia tried in vain to find some ease, seating herself upon grass that had baked almost to straw, but to no avail. Her broad-brimmed bonnet wilted in the sun; wearied at last to defeat, she set her feet on the path back towards the stone pile they must perforce call home.

As she approached, a figure in blinding white appeared on the steps and trotted across the carriage sweep—dust rising with each step—to meet her.

"I had hoped you would walk a little longer," Diana pouted, glancing over her shoulder, "I cannot bear another instant in her company."

"For your sake I would if only I could. But the heat is too much. Even you may faint from it sooner than you realize."

"Let us go into the gardens, then. It is too early for her to follow us there."

The gardens at least offered arbors hung with flowering vines and fragrant grapes. It would be a pleasant refuge. So, with a nod, Sophia linked her arm with her sister's; together, they traced the narrow track beside the house, winding on fine white gravel past ornate trimmed hedges and classical statues salvaged, as her ladyship was wont to proudly declaim, from the heathens of Greece.

That said heathens had carved the statues in the first place—and that Lord Worthington had included figures of gods and goddesses among his tasteful, proper selections of senators and emperors—were both distinctions lost on her ladyship.

"Think you the heat will keep her from the Essex picnic this afternoon?"

"We should be so fortunate! But at the very least old Mr. Essex will keep her entertained. Though _you_ managed to escape them on that first day we toured Mannerby, _I_ was not nearly so fortunate. The amount of self-congratulation they managed to fit into a mere two hours, you would not believe."

"How many times must I apologize for seizing the opportunity to escape?"

"I could forgive you for that if only you had not thrown me to the wolves in the process! 'Oh, Mr. Essex'," Sophia affected her sister's most insincere society simper, "'I know nothing of painting! My sister is the artist in the family; I would be of far more use gathering strawberries with the others'."

Diana shrugged, cheerfully unrepentant. "He had to have at least _one_ of us. Besides, you would not have been able to endure the puppyish ways of the younger Mr. Essex, and I could."

"Yes, he is a puppy indeed. Now you have him trained so well he follows you everywhere. Does he chew your shoes as well?"

"Hmm. He is almost as irritating, but that will dissipate with time. Were he a few years older I should think his chances of improvement unequaled. As it is, I am glad Mrs. Essex has a young lady of more...unencumbered fortune in mind for her eldest."

"It is true that romancing a man not yet of age has its disadvantages. Yet in the weeks we have been here, I do not know that we have met with anyone more promising. And you must have someone."

" _I_ must have someone?"

"Certainly. Like a flower without rain," Sophia raised her arm, a player upon a stage, "you wither without a man to shower you in compliments."

Diana pinched her sister's tender, exposed wrist, grinning when she heard a yelp. "And you? Do not think I have been blind to your many hours spent alone in the morning room, writing letters. Or the ones you hide in your reticule when someone stumbles across you in the shrubbery. Nor yet the fact that you correspond—with suspicious frequency—with Mrs. Mayfair, a woman with whom you cannot possibly have anything in common save her brother-in-law!"

Sophia thanked God for her drooping bonnet; it shielded the sudden pallor of fright that overwhelmed her features. It struck her how foolish she was being even then, carrying Captain Mayfair's latest letter in her bosom for quiet reflection under the trees and out of sight.

She thought quickly. Again, she posed; this time pressing her hands to her heart, hoping Diana would notice neither the tension in her knuckles nor the way they shook. "You have discovered me. Oh, the secret love I had hoped to cherish in abnegation and silence has burst its bounds!"

"Oh, Sophie, I beg you not to make a joke of it! You know that both Mama and I want you to find love. I must own," her voice sank, "I was glad to think you reconsidering your stance against marriage."

"How _can_ you have discussed any of this with Mama? We have been in England under a year; indeed, only just over half a year. Is my situation so desperate that she has already marked me for spinsterhood? And if," a desire to throw off any hint of suspicion made her cruel, "Mama is so concerned for _me_ , should she not be more so for _you_? I see the lily still pressed in your Bible from that last bouquet Mr. Cox—"

"Very well," Diana interrupted, lips drawn tight, "keep your secrets. Keep them until you choke, only do not take the liberty of repeating _mine_."

The sisters paced the labyrinthine garden paths, beaten from above and below by shimmering waves of heat. Dissatisfaction sweltered in such an environment, with not a breath of wind to blow it from their hearts.

"Well," Sophia sought to return them to something, anything, less contentious, "and so Mr. Patrick is unpromising?"

"He is very well in his way. He does his best to be agreeable, even if he may only do so by spending his allowance on whatever I wish for. It is in his family's way that I foresee difficulties."

Despite Sophia's efforts to prolong the topic, it shortly dropped as they walked on, the only living creatures abroad; the only hint of life in the regulated garden. Not even the bees were buzzing that day, leaving the world eerily silent.

"So you do not think of him, then?"

"Think of whom?"

"Captain Mayfair."

Sophia's even steps faltered; she mimed shaking a stone from her shoe to explain the lapse. Carefully, carefully. Their six weeks in the country had done little towards resolving the situation that bound the Captain, herself, Maria, and Sophia's former lover together, nor did six weeks or six months more promise to provide any resolutions whatsoever.

She wished—with what heart-bloody longing did she wish!—to unburden herself of the secrets that refused to allow her a moment's peace. Yet Sophia knew that all she would achieve in confessing them would be to spread the weight of them onto her sister's shoulders, and _that_ she firmly refused to do.

But this...this was a relief too tempting to put aside.

"I think of him," her voice was scarce above a whisper, but it was thunder in that silent air, "I wish I did not."

Diana gasped. She restrained her exuberance to a single exclamation of "I was certain!" before her sympathies all bent towards her suffering sister. _This_ was an agony she not only understood, but respected.

"But why should you be so melancholy? He will return to England, I am sure; a captain such as he has little to fear from either pirates or storms. And then what is to prevent him from addressing you again?"

Though Sophia smiled and shook her head at her sister's callous disregard of the many oceanic dangers that respected neither a man's rank nor his superiority, she could not say more to make Diana understand just what a gulf lay between them now. She had confessed their father's crimes; though she was helping to undo them, she could not purge herself of being a product and beneficiary of them. What man—resolute, upright, and moral—would cherish an affection for someone like that?

"A man does not easily forget a rejection. Nor are the reasons I gave for rejecting him at all done away with. _I_ may think of him, but he may be teaching himself _not_ to think of me. Would it not be foolish—worse than foolish—to make myself love him without a guarantee of any return?"

The lie was hollow, an apple eaten from within by worms. Of all the many she had told this past year, it hurt beyond all of them.

"So cold!" Diana shook her head, "But no, that is unkind. You are right, of course. It only hurts me to hear you calculating affection as a business transaction, like—"

Wisely, she did not finish the thought. Both sisters knew where it ended.

She tried another tack. "But Sophie, consider. Our time in England is not without limits. Do you want to return to Spain to keep father's house for the rest of your days? Moreover, to condemn Mama to return to him? This is our chance, perhaps our only chance, to escape that future. Is not some sacrifice and uncertainty worth the risk?"

A pause; stunned, breathless. "I did not know you viewed our marriages in that light."

"In what other light can I view them? He will never be able to follow us here; it is only by remaining here that we free ourselves from him."

Sophia felt her knees weaken beneath her; leaning rather more heavily on her sister's arm than she was wont to, she groped towards a marble bench set beneath a sliver of shade. The sudden shock into shadow made her still more faint. Headless of appearances, she buried her face in her hands. Like a distant wind were Diana's torrent of questions in her ear; she heard them without discerning more than a roar.

To those inquiries she managed at last to say, "I am well. It is the heat. Also, I am...I confess myself—we have never spoken of father in this way before."

Diana's lips twitched, though with sorrow or a smile Sophia could not tell. "We were in his house before. When might we have safely discussed him?"

"So you are determined not to return to Spain?"

"No. I would get Maria away from there too, if I could. Nor would our mother return if I could conquer the spirit of duty that has supported her these long years. But she will always have a home with me; when I have children, she may feel her duty to me stronger than her duty to our father."

"Perhaps," Sophia felt odd, hearing her own thoughts spring fully articulated from her sister's lips. Diana, whom she had always thought tacitly permissive of their father's business and behavior, so long as it provided the status and wealth she wished! Diana, whom she had thought desirous only of an advantageous marriage?

How long had she been laboring under a false conviction of her sister's moral lassitude?

This was not someone who should be shielded from the truth. This was a woman—a girl no longer—who had borne her own troubles in silence as well as she herself had.

She shaped the sentence clumsily, tongue intent still on retaining her secrets though her mind willed itself to divulge them:

"There is more to my relationship with Mrs. Mayfair—and Captain Mayfair—than what I have told you."

Diana nodded. If she felt any surprise, there was no hint of it in her eyes.

"Will you hear the truth?"

"With all my heart."


	30. XXX

**XXX**

"Do my eyes deceive me, or are you truly pleased about our excursion today?"

"Have I the reputation of being so very difficult to please?" Sophia tied her freshly-trimmed straw bonnet's lilac ribbons in a becoming bow beneath her ear, examining the effect in the tall glass of her mother's sitting room, "Besides, it was not I who hid behind those dreadful neoclassical cupids in the garden in order to avoid Lord Arlington and his dullard of a son. I do not believe any share of incredulity on this occasion is justly directed at me."

Diana laughed, jostling with Sophia at the glass to carefully adjust a spray of artificial flowers on her own bonnet. "Sophia has the right of it, Mama. You _were_ most indiscreet, you know. Even Lady Worthington, who ordinarily delights in such rudeness, felt it necessary to invent a sudden illness on your behalf."

"You will never understand what it was to be courted by a man like that, my dears," Mrs. Herrera set her shoulders with an air of unrepentant insouciance, "His son is only a pale shadow of the clinging vine his father used to be. Wherever I went, he was by my side, whispering the most bland of sweet nothings in my ear."

The girls shared a glance. "He was your lover, then? Has such a man spirit enough to love?"

"He thought he did, which unfortunately created the same effect in the minds of many. His chief tactic was to exhaust _my_ spirit enough through sheer dint of being always in my way. One look assured me that his cow-eyed stare had not changed one whit since I saw him last. Forgive me if I could not bear once more to be its object."

"No forgiveness is necessary of course, dearest Mama," Diana smiled, "Yet you know he is to be of our party today? Have you already planned which gazebo to run to, should it prove necessary?"

Their mother heaved a sigh. "No. But at least he will not be sharing our carriage. Between we three and Lady Worthington, the barouche will have no room to admit a golem."

"And once we arrive at Sutton Place?"

"I will depend upon you girls to spirit me away."

"At least this time," Sophia reasoned, finally satisfied with the way her ribbons lay, "his wife will be with us. And _she_ showed no inclination for letting him anywhere near his former enchantress. Between us, I think we will keep you safe."

Mrs. Herrera laughed heartily at the idea of herself as a bewitching siren, but her daughters still teased that she might easily command the hearts of all her former acquaintance, be they married or no. Indeed, on that fresh summer morning, after a rainstorm that had broken the heat, their mother—figure neat as always in a gown of sprigged muslin scattered with tiny roses—looked cheerful and natural as a girl half her age. The country had done them at least one unequivocal good in returning Mrs. Herrera to perfect good health. Even the heat, which troubled her daughters to faintness, only seemed to invigorate her.

That morning she had as much energy and excitement for their party's planned excursion through Guildford and beyond to Sutton place as Sophia and Diana did.

Nor were they the only lively ones. Noise from the foyer below their sitting room had reached a fever pitch. Each noteworthy family from ten miles 'round had been called upon to fill out every carriage, phaeton, curricle, and barouche that could be mustered between them. At the head of this veritable army stood their general, Lady Worthington.

In an amusing turn, their laconic aunt had been stirred to unusual exertion, goaded by Lady Essex and her constant plans for 'education and improvement', as she called her walking parties, cultural jaunts, and musicians and authors she collected at her grand house.

 _This_ expedition however, was the largest mounted thus far among the gentry in Surrey; Lady Worthington therefore considered her role as first figure in the county secured in perpetuity. Until the following summer, at least.

"Shall we?"

Secure in their own good looks and flattering summer gowns, the three Herrera ladies descended into the giggling whirl of a dozen young ladies, assorted nodding chaperones, and slyly lounging young men waiting to escort them. In the parlor beyond, venerable patriarchs took one last glass to fortify them against an entire day of genteel conversation, though more than a few graybeards eyed the lovely Miss Herreras and considered themselves somewhat compensated for such trials.

The sisters separated at the foot of the stairs, mingling with the crowd and finding what companions they might enjoy for the day. Sophia had developed an affinity for the sensible oldest daughter of Mrs. Bascombe, whose jilting by a decorated colonel had been so scandalous as to make the papers; Diana preferred the artistic Miss Edwards, whose talents in painting on porcelain were the envy of the surrounding three counties.

Sophia found her friend sipping a glass of lemonade, standing out of the way in the lee of a table in the hall.

"Miss Bascombe, I am so pleased you decided to join us today."

"Miss Herrera. I imagine that in this I had even less choice than you," Miss Bascombe had perfected the art of the sardonic smile; half Sophia's pleasure in their acquaintance was in watching the many varied shades of her work.

"How so?"

"Do you see that rather broken-down major, taking his third glass of port?" she indicated the one she meant with a gesture of her glass, "He is the best my father expects I shall be able to attract at this advanced stage of my life. I am under orders to make myself agreeable."

Sophia studied him well from the corner of her eye; 'broken-down' was a generous description. His whole figure and most of his features seemed crooked, as though he had been dashed to pieces and assembled by a careless hand afterwards.

A poor fit for Miss Bascombe. For all her twenty-eight years, she retained traces of her first bloom, a bloom so remarkable as to attract an Earl's second son, however that attraction had unfortunately ended. She had a tall, commanding figure and strong features, all of these animated by an intelligent wit, which, though soured now to bitterness, Sophia could easily imagine to have been arch and sweet when it first debuted.

Miss Bascombe's smile twisted. "The notion _is_ rather insulting, is it not?"

Sophia did not laugh, but it was a near thing. It was refreshing to have an acquaintance with such a well-developed sense of the ridiculous.

"If it is any comfort, I believe your father underestimates you."

"Perhaps. But perhaps he has an only _too_ correct estimation of the world at large."

"Attention! Attention all!" Lady Worthington, a plump ragdoll in voluminous blue silks that were too bright for her blotchy complexion, "The carriages await!"

"Will you not join me?" Miss Bascombe placed a hand on Sophia's arm, "You will be a far more welcome companion in our carriage than Major Barton."

"I am sorry," she believed she was, in truth, "but I am needed for a similar purpose in my own carriage."

"Indeed? You have been in Surrey for two months now, and I have yet to hear your name coupled with any young man's. If we are to remain friends, Miss Herrera, you must make some embarrassing romantic misstep soon, or I shall feel slighted. But I suppose your mother's scandal shall have to suffice."

She felt her error as soon as the words escaped, but Sophia forestalled any apology by stepping away.

"I will see you at Guildford, Miss Bascombe," she glided through the crowd with a nod, trying to maintain her smile as she returned cheerful greetings on all sides. By the time she stepped up into their carriage, exhaustion dogged her although the day had only just begun.

* * *

Their journey began shortly after breakfast, as Guildford lay some fifteen miles distant from Lady Worthington's estate. The Herreras had passed through it only once on their trip south from London. Their memories only encompassed a short stroll up and down the high street and a distant view of Guildford Castle, as well as a passable lunch eaten in the public rooms as their horses rested.

Sophia had been struck chiefly by its difference from the Spanish villages she was used to; moreover, she had been embarrassed again by how little she knew England, though it was half her natural inheritance. The little town, steeped in history and religious tradition, had somehow seemed more alien to her than a jaunt across the lunar surface. Its people, so energetic and busy, were worlds away from the tired, limp public life that characterized midday in a Spanish town.

However, that day was a day for new memories and fresh impressions. The countryside lay before them like a spread of smooth green linen, embroidered with picturesque towns tucked into its folds, each twist in the road unrolling a pleasant new vista. The day itself smiled upon them, sun high in the sky, feathered with drifting clouds. Rainstorms the day before left the road free of dust but had been considerate enough to leave no puddles left to splash their dresses, nor any ruts to jar them against each other. It was easy to recover spirits on such a drive, and Sophia contributed her mite to the conversation that passed between them, inconsequential as children tossing a ball.

Lady Worthington's team of matched grays made excellent time; they arrived in Guildford a full hour before the time prearranged for their luncheon at the inn.

They had just finished exclaiming at their good fortune in having a few minutes to stretch their legs before sitting down once more when Lady Worthington did them the additional favor of declaring she would go into the inn at once to refresh herself before the other guests arrived. Mrs. Herrera went likewise, shaking off her girls' looks of concern at her needing the use of a strong footman's arm to help her inside.

Left to their own concerns, Diana turned to her sister with a shrug.

"Well, you know more of English history than I. Where shall we go?"

Sophia traced the buildings of the high street, taking in the meager shops and stalls selling the same hats and ribbons one could find even in the small markets nearer home. The Guildhall was an impressive building, but even its large cantilevered clock was a sight soon exhausted.

A rather daring idea struck her; taking her sister's hand, she hurried her back down the street towards the inn.

"Should you mind being late for lunch?"

"There is nothing in cold meat and salad to inspire me to any hurry."

With a nod, Sophia approached their coachman and asked him to stay a moment before unhitching the horses.

"It would not take long at all for you to drive us to Guildford Castle, would it?"

Bainbridge sighed. "M'lady will want the horses rested so that you may drive on right after lunch, Miss."

"True, but we shall not be long. A glimpse is all I ask."

Sophia did not often test the power of her beguiling smile, but was glad to find its efficacy undiminished in the absence of practice.

"All right then," Bainbridge conceded, "So long as it will only be a glimpse. I shouldn't want to keep m'lady any longer than she likes."

He helped the sisters back into the barouche and with a flick of his whip on the rump of the closest mare, they set off again, carriage swift now that half its burden was gone.

"You realize if we _are_ late we shall be in for harsher scolding than Bainbridge," Diana held her bonnet on her head with one hand as they trotted out of the town and into the hills beyond.

Sophia did not reply; the shape of the castle above them was far too enticing. For all Diana's teasing that she was the historian between them, there _was_ a thrill in seeing something she had known only from dry pages and flat words take on shape and color in reality.

It took a quarter-hour to arrive at the Castle; by the time Bainbridge helped them down, Sophia could already see impatience twisting his thin lips into a furious grimace. She thanked him with another demure curtsy, not unaccompanied with a flutter of eyelashes, and assured him again that they would only be a moment.

Quick walkers both, the sisters traced a path around the rounded motte, Sophia exclaiming at the pity of letting such a place as this fall into ruin.

"William the Conquerer himself built this over seven hundred years ago! How sad it should be in such a state!" She leaped over the last few steps and pressed herself against the broken, mottled stones of the tower. The stone had been worn away by an endless sweep of wind, each brick pitted and uneven. Her fingers traced this wear, wondering at how soft hard rock had become with centuries of time and weather.

Diana was not impressed. "Sophie, don't! There is so much dust, and you will tear your dress!"

"I have not come all this way not to see inside!"

The door of the keep was wedged tight, but not so tight that Sophia could not first push it open and then squeeze inside. Darkness swelled about her and the dust made her cough, but once inside it was as if she had fallen through a portal in time.

Windowless, thick-walled, the keep was a remnant of a past wracked by uncertainty and violence. Daylight and fresh air were no enticement when every window to the outside world was also an invitation to arrows or flame. How far was this world removed from the one they knew! Yet how few years truly divided their modern England from its barbaric past?

Chilled by thick, heavy darkness, Sophia shuddered. "Incredible."

Her voice echoed back from each lonely corner.

"Miss Herrera! Miss Diana!"

They both startled at Bainbridge's broad burr.

"If you please, we've been a half-hour already!"

Diana spoke first. "We come," she called back, laying a hand on Sophia's elbow; its warmth was a jarring juxtaposition to the past's ghostly chill.

"Come. We do not want Mama to worry."

With one final glance, Sophia nodded. "Yes."

Emerging from darkness into light did nothing to dispel Sophia's morbid recollections. She climbed back into the barouche still in a trance, lost in her imaginings of life in the ancient pile. It took a sudden lurch of the carriage and a muffled curse from Bainbridge to jar her back into the present, but when she did it was merely as falling from one illusion into another.

Their carriage had slid into a rut off the main road, a muddy, sucking rut disguised by gathered rain from the night before. Though there was little chance of an upset, their footman swiftly helped the sisters down while Bainbridge began the delicate operation of teasing the carriage back onto level ground.

"My goodness! Is everyone all right?"

The oncoming carriage that had so startled their horses now disgorged its passengers; a plump, matronly woman and two men. One tall, spare, and ascetic; the other bronzed, square, and...

Sophia gasped before she could prevent it.

"Captain Mayfair!"

* * *


	31. XXXI

**XXXI**

It was absolutely necessary to say something. Were a child in danger of falling into some rocky chasm, Sophia could hardly be blamed if she thought that circumstance less worth her speaking than the one in which she found herself at that moment. Her lips were parting about a sentence whose meaning and construction she had not the slightest guess at, when the Captain stepped forward and took her hand.

The warmth of immediate action conquered the cold distance of words.

"Miss Herrera," he said, gathering her hand—and by extension, her—to his breast, "I," he paused, eyes darting over her face as though unsure of which feature he longed most to see, "I should help your coachman."

"Oh," she had time to say before her hand and eyes were empty again.

Mrs. Mayfair came towards the sisters in his place, twittering just the right expressions of sympathy and surprise; suddenly, instead of straining herself to achieve calm, cool politeness, Sophia was instead wrestling with the lion of disappointment that roared in her heart.

"Oh yes, we often come south to travel," Mrs. Mayfair replied to Diana's question, "I am from southern stock myself, and Mr. Mayfair has vast acquaintance among the clergy here. But it was such a surprise to us when Richard wrote to say he was at Portsmouth! We decided to leave Newcastle earlier than our original plan in order to meet him in London."

"I am glad to see you all well?" Sophia might well have congratulated herself on the indifferent manner in which she asked; her voice was so soft the question would have been lost in horses' grunts and jangling harness, had not Diana repeated it.

"Lord be praised, well enough. Though Richard hasn't had an easy time of it," there was a glint in Mrs. Mayfair's eyes that told Sophia this intelligence was for _her_ sake, "His letters for more vessels and wider powers are constantly going unanswered; he is only back so soon in order to petition the Admiralty in person."

"Is that often done?" Curiosity roused her courage to speak up. How like him! How like him, refusing to wait in frustrated inaction. Had she his courage, she should walk to him at that moment and...and what? Imagination failed her.

"Well, no. To be fair, Richard is using his leave to speak to those of his acquaintance as have influence among the Admiralty. He himself being only a Captain, as you know. He hopes it will prove effectual, as do we all."

"Of course."

Further conversation was no longer necessary; quick thinking and a little muscle, both readily donated from Captain Mayfair's ample stores, had set their carriage back on the road again after no more than five minutes' delay. Mrs. Mayfair's plea that the sisters join them in touring the castle was easily put aside. They were already overdue to join their own party. Nor did anyone from Mrs. Mayfair's family seem eager for the Herreras to join them.

Sophia's mind and feelings were so disordered that she knew not whether to rejoice in or despair of the fact.

The Captain bowed to her sister with a few murmured pleasantries as he helped her into the carriage. As Sophia reached to take his outstretched hand likewise, she prepared herself to be disappointed again by the awkwardness that had so characterized this odd, unexpected encounter of theirs.

But strong pressure on her fingers sent a thrill straight to her heart, as did the intent gaze of his coal-black eyes. He held her a little back from their carriage, out of Diana's hearing; she, naturally, did her best not to notice as the Captain stepped even nearer.

"You are staying at your aunt's estate in this county, yes?"

"Yes," she replied, though the name of that estate flew straight from her head, "I know that...Mama would be pleased to see you there, though your stay in England is brief. I hope you will have time for your friends who...who wish the best for you."

There was precious little strength in her fingers, but all she had bent towards returning his grip. From the faint smile that creased in fine lines around his mouth, he felt it. Sophia allowed herself then to be handed into the carriage without another word; what else was there to say? This was hardly the time to parse the riotous blaze of emotion setting her body alight.

Bainbridge whipped the horses forward and the Mayfairs slid from sight. Sophia slumped against cushions and let her head loll back so all she saw was a green-blue blur of trees and sky smearing together, a melted oil painting composed of nothing but color and light. She smiled. It was beautiful.

"Do compose yourself," Diana hissed, "We will be in town soon enough; people will stare."

"At what?"

"You are grinning like a baboon. You do not wish the Prince to catch you and put you in one of his pleasure-gardens?"

She _did_ rouse herself, enough to sit upright and hide her grin. Still, a little vent was imperative.

"I would have thought you would approve my feelings, not condemn them. Did you not once wish to see me carried away? If ever I were in danger of being so carried, it is at this moment and no other. In the vastness of England—of the _world—_ to encounter each other as we did?"

Diana was silent, but her fingers plucked ruthlessly at a silk flower on her sash, shredding it into feathery strips that drooped sadly from her belt. Sophia reached across the carriage and stilled those angry fingers.

"What is it?"

"What do you think it means, that he is here? Returned on business to the Admiralty, yet he joins his brother and sister-in-law on a sightseeing tour in a county where he knows he may find us?"

"You do not attribute his actions to any romantic motive, then?"

The question had been intended for a joke, but it fell flat between them, naked and bereft. Sophia considered other possibilities as her sister—with her unclouded point of view—might see them. Their encounter, so fateful, started to appear more calculated than divine.

"No," it was too horrible, "No, you are wrong. If he is not come on the chance that he should see _me—_ and what sensible man would take such a wild chance?—there is nothing odd in that he should choose to spend his leave with relatives, to fall in with their plans."

Diana was not satisfied. A loop of braided silk came under siege next.

"What do you suspect him of?"

"Nothing. Only...Sophie, you have shown me his letters. We have disagreed on this point already, but I must ask you again: are you as pleased with his reply to your confession as you should be?"

* * *

"Well, well, you are here at last. Do sit down; the tea is fresh. I do not know when I have had to put in the same order so many times," already Lady Worthington had forgotten the Herreras in airing her grievances, leaving them to find seats as they could, "It cannot possibly be so difficult to boil a kettle of water."

"I am sorry we were gone so long, Mama," Sophia edged through the crowd until she could squeeze into the chair saved for her between Miss Bascombe and her mother, "It was all my fault. The Castle was too tempting not to explore."

"Give me some credit, my dear. Two sensible girls in care of a competent coachman hardly raise any cause for alarm," her half-empty plate testified to her ease, "I was more worried I should not be able to save any pork for you, but here it is."

Niceties of eating and drinking provided an excellent opportunity for Sophia to shore up her defenses against further inquiry. Unlike Guildford Castle, she soon found herself preparing for a savage occasion that would never occur.

"I have passed through this town half a dozen times and have never diverted to see the Castle," Miss Bascombe remarked, "Is it not strange how such bastions of history go so unremarked in our daily lives? Perhaps we are allowing all such sights to fall to ruins to satisfy our cravings for the picturesque!"

The speech was made half for Sophia and half to the table at large. It raised a polite chuckle from most, as well as indignation from the older crowd who declared _they_ should not forget history as their children seemed determined to, and cries from one impish gentlemen who drawled that the sooner all those old piles crumbled to dust, the better. Once an over-eager young lady lamented that she always intended to take up a more thorough study of history were it not for the sheer _breadth_ of it, the matter had run its course and was dropped entirely.

More commonplace subjects found better traction, including her ladyship's lament that her horses would likely not have time to rest properly before it became necessary to work them again.

Diana made their apologies for prolonging the horses' use, very kindly not mentioning that the whole excursion had been Sophia's idea. Sophia privately winced to be thought in need of such care, but did not contradict her.

Too much of her skill was required to box away her feelings from whence they had been pulled out and rudely trampled. Several of them indeed had torn, leaving rough edges that would no longer fit as she tried to put them in order.

As dessert came round, Mrs. Herrera at last took a good look at her older daughter. "You look pale, my dear. You need not sacrifice yourself on my account, you know. I can easily sit backwards; it is not so far to Sutton Place now."

Sophia strangled a squeal of hysterical laughter. "Thank you Mama. I will own I was a trifle uneasy on the journey here; all those winding turns down country roads."

Conversation flowed above and beyond her then, requiring her only to say little and smile much. She had just set her fork to a strawberry tart when a bustle of skirts and pushing back of chairs announced the group's collective intention to return to the road.

Sophia had never been happier to abandon her favorite sweet in her life.

* * *

Many hours later they returned to Broadmeadow, following their stretched, ghostly carriage shadow down the long gravel sweep. Sunset had faded behind them, leaving only a last gasp of light to illuminate their way in pale pink and soft orange. Mrs. Herrera roused off Diana's sagging shoulder; reaching across the carriage, she squeezed Sophia's hand to wake her. Despite her closed eyes and her creditable act, Sophia had not known an instant's rest the entire journey.

Lady Worthington gave a great gasping snore and jerked upright as they rolled to a stop.

"Give the order for tea," she commanded the nearest servant, an infinitesimal pageboy who might disappear beneath her ladyship's skirts without a ripple, "Immediately. And tell Sarah I want _two_ hot water bottles in my bed tonight. My head has never ached so much."

Her girth supported by two footmen, their aunt made her ponderous way inside, grumbling the entire way like a set of wheezing bellows.

Bainbridge alone was left to help the other ladies down.

"Tea, Mama?" Diana yawned.

"I will take it in my room, I think. Such a long drive! I am chilled to the bone."

"Myself as well," Sophia grabbed her chance, "I believe I will go straight to bed."

"Oh, but if Mama is going to her room, I depend upon you to have at least one cup with me before bed," Diana locked a hand around her wrist, "Please?"

It was no request. Sophia sighed, but supposed this was the smallest price she could be expected to pay.

"Very well. But let us take it in my sitting room."

Orders given and shawls and bonnets shed upon waiting maids, the sisters saw their mother to her room before turning into Sophia's suite. The frilled horsehair sofas were ones Sophia avoided whenever possible; everything about the room, from busy patterns to fussy porcelain ornaments, was at odds with her artistic sensibilities.

She sighed again. What a perfect venue for a conversation that was like to put neither of them at ease!

By mutual, unspoken consent, neither one spoke until Grace had brought the teapot and tray and bowed herself out.

"You want to read the letter again?"

"It satisfied you," to her credit, Diana spoke gently, "but forgive me, you may have allowed yourself to be easily satisfied."

"He makes no threat against us in it. He was very kind."

"He was. But he is here, now. When no one expected him. Does that not indicate, if not a threat, than at the very least..."

"What?"

"I hardly know! All I know is that I cannot be easy if he is in the country. Would to God he were still on his ship, where he ought to be!"

"Facing all manner of dangers, risking his life day by day?" Sophia scalded her tongue on tea she had not permitted to cool, "He may make you uneasy, but does it follow that you wish him dead?"

"That is _not_ what I mean, and you know it," Diana shook her head, dropping her face into her hands. When she looked up, there was iron in her eyes. "Give me the letter."

Without any opportunity to demur, Sophia had no choice but to draw it from her reticule. In Diana's scowl, she read every possible condemnation for such sentimentality. But of stupidity and childishness she had already accused herself many times. Nothing changed the truth that she felt comforted by the letter's presence as she would be soothed by the voice of a friend.

It left her vulnerable, giving it away. Diana snatched it from her hand, unfolding it as she did, frown etching deeper as she saw how often it had been opened before. Perhaps Sophia should have joked, reminded her to smile and save her skin from wrinkles, but her impudence was weak after a day of forced frivolity. She stayed silent as Diana read the letter she had long since memorized.

_Dear Miss Herrera,_

_Your confession astounds me. Forgive me if this letter is unclear, but in the three days I have had it, I have not been able to decide how best to tell you my thoughts. I must first assure you that my sister-in-law is entirely trustworthy; your secret will be safe with her. It is also safe with me._

_You told me you admired what I have chosen to do with my talents and opportunities. I can now return the compliment. Your fortune and future depend on the evil of slavery, an evil we both agree must be blotted from this earth. Yet you throw in your lot with me, knowing that if your father is implicated in the trade, you may well fall with him._

_You confess your father's past to me as though_ you _have committed a crime. Miss Herrera, you are not, you cannot be to blame. Surely you know this. Even your father committed no crime; no crime, that is, to mortal men._

_I am only disappointed, though by no means surprised, that you protected your father from justice. Protected him despite your fears, despite the accusations your father's warehouse foreman had brought against him. This did upset me, I admit. Information, so often delayed or imperfect at sea, is nevertheless the most important tool with which I carry out my duty. My own father was a moral force, who would never have permitted anyone to sin on his behalf. Therefore, I can have no understanding of what it is to love a man fundamentally flawed._

_Forgive me. These are harsh words to apply to your father, a man I do not know. But perhaps I_ do _know him. If you are right, if he is still trading in slaves, he is not only immoral in terms of God's law but in terms of man's. The former we cannot justly punish. The latter only is my duty to enforce._

 _For your sake, I hope your father is innocent of any earthly crimes. You say you plan to enlist everyone you can in order to discover his innocence_ or _guilt. I believe you. However, I must ask if the information you have given me thus far is complete. I do not mean to question your honor, an honor I had no reason to doubt. Still, I must. I have, based on your earlier information, begun several courses of action I must know whether or not to continue._

_There is much more I wish to say to you, but a letter is no fit place. I will only say, thank you. For your courage, your dignity, and your trust._

_God bless you,_

_I am, etc._

* * *


	32. XXXII

**XXXII**

A soft murmur of voices, pleasant as the ripple of water in a forest stream, echoed through the massive foyer of Broadmeadow. There was a cadence in it that did not remind her of any of the house's inmates; it was heavy, mellow, anchoring her in what was normally a twittering array of female voices.

Sophia shed her armful of wildflowers, still wet with glistening droplets of morning dew, and took off her bonnet. "Who has come to see us, Grace?"

"Captain Mayfair, miss. And forgive me for saying so, but he was that disappointed when he heard you were already on your morning walk. He is in the drawing room with Mrs. Herrera, and Lucy is helping Miss Diana into her dress now."

Sophia had forgot the flowers, forgot the line of muddied wet that stained her dress, forgot even her own numb feet as they hovered, indecisive, in the hall.

"Where is Lady Worthington?"

"She has not yet come down. Helen—Miss Ferry, that is, her lady's maid—tells me her ladyship has a touch of the headache and did not rise for breakfast at all this morning."

"Thank you Grace."

"Shall I put these in water for you, miss?"

"Yes. No!" she shook her head, "I meant them for Mama's room, that is. She loves cornflowers. Please take them there."

"Very good, miss," with a curtsy and a cocked head, Grace took the flowers and went softly upstairs.

Alone then, no one could have blamed Sophia for following her likewise. The hall was silent; no eyes were watching, which in a house of such significant size was a rare blessing. Retreat was sorely tempting.

But no. Mama would already have her curiosity roused by the Captain's unexpected arrival at Broadmeadow, especially when she believed him still to be trawling his hunting grounds off the African coast. Had the Captain told her of their meeting yesterday? Sophia ground her teeth; she hated to feel her hand forced. She had not yet made up her mind as to _what_ , if anything, to tell her mother.

It could not be avoided. She set her shoulders, turned to the mirror, and hastily arranged her features in a pantomime of warm welcome.

"Why, Captain!" she crossed the room with both hands outstretched, as she would greet any other dear acquaintance, "What a delight to see you so soon!" In the instant her face was averted in a curtsy, she bit her tongue. Rather too much enthusiasm; he was a friend, nothing more.

"Have you then abandoned Mr. and Mrs. Mayfair to wait upon us?"

"I thought you should not have time to tell your mother of our meeting yesterday, but I recalled your invitation to visit. Forgive me if I took it more readily than you may have intended. I missed my good friends."

"Have I not scolded you enough already for such flattery?" Mrs. Herrera motioned him back to the chair at her side, "Such a terrible flirt! Sophie, you should have told me you met yesterday, but the Captain has already made your excuses for you. But I daresay," her eyelashes fluttered becomingly, "it is not to see _me_ again that you travel so far and so early this morning."

"Mama!" a kind person would not have called Sophia's tone a _squawk_ , but a plucked goose could not have made such a honk, "you tease the Captain. All he wishes is to be agreeable to _you_ , it is plain to see."

But Captain Mayfair was grinning. "Miss Herrera, do forgive you mother. I was the one who commented how deathly dull life can be on a ship, when surrounded only by humorless lieutenants. She only endeavors to give me the laughter I have missed these past months."

"There, Sophie. Not every act of mine is an effort to embarrass you," Mrs. Herrera folded her hands prim as a schoolgirl, smiling at her flustered daughter.

"If it is laughter you want, I am sure we can supply some," Sophia shook off her embarrassment, though it lingered still in her primrose cheeks. She arranged herself carefully on a chaise across from them both. "Stories of our aunt you will have had plenty, but there is a host of new acquaintance we may tease at our leisure. Shall I tell you of Mr. Essex, and his insistence that Gillray and Rowlandson should be jailed for their caricatures of the Prince's latest scandal?"

"Indeed?"

"Yes. He believes that any mockery of the English royal family demeans the entire English character, as...oh, how did he finish, Mama? I saw you turn purple in an effort to keep from laughing."

Mrs. Herrera drew herself upright, adjusted an imaginary cravat, and thundered forth, "'Demeans the entire English character by making us less discerning and more gullible than a lot of damned Frogs! Your pardon, ladies'."

"The very image," Sophia and the Captain applauded, "You could play him on the stage, right down to the way he tugs at his waistcoat at the end of each sentence. Though you should need an extra stone at least if you wish to pop buttons the way he does."

"Should I ever make Mr. Essex's acquaintance, I shall have to forget having met him once already," the Captain rode out the last of his chuckles, "My compliments, ma'am. Or rather, sir?"

Mrs. Herrera waved him away.

"Such crusaders in defense of English virtue were hardly unknown in my time. My very brother turned out to be one of them! And to think he used to put ink in my mother's tea and paste on our father's chair," she shook her head, musing, "I suppose the beatings he got for such things made him appreciate a little English discipline, in the end. A pity, I always thought."

A pattering bustle in the hallway preceded Diana's entrance. If she felt any trepidation upon meeting the Captain there, when a half-hour's debate with Sophia on his intentions had failed to set her mind at ease the night before, at least she did not betray it. She was all smiles and laughter, wringing his hand in welcome.

Something about her arrival shifted the balance in the room. Once they were all seated again, three ladies and one gentleman stared at each other, a stilted awkwardness stuffing up the air between them.

Diana reached for something simple to clear the atmosphere. "Mrs. Mayfair's children are well, I hope? We had no time to ask her yesterday."

"They are as rambunctious as ever they were. I have my eye on her youngest boy; he may make a fine midshipman."

"You begin your recruitment very young. What of the baby?"

"I am afraid it is too early to tell, ma'am," he replied in all seriousness, "though his grip will prove handy in the ratlines, should he choose to go aloft. My apologies, I should have mentioned sooner: Mr. and Mrs. Mayfair send their regrets that they will likely not be able to wait on you. Prior engagements occupy nearly all my brother's time. They asked me to pass along their best wishes, and their hopes you may all meet again in London next winter."

"Of course."

Another pause succeeded. Sophia bestirred herself this time. "Broadmeadow grows so warm in the afternoon, standing exposed in the middle of the fields here. We often walk in the gardens at this hour; would you care to see them?"

"Broadmeadow's grounds _are_ famous," Diana fell in with her at once, "and the walks are quite refreshing."

"What energy you have! Yesterday was too taxing for a proper saunter. You will tempt me no further than the shrubbery," their mother warned them.

The Captain made no objections to venturing outside, and all four of them were quickly striding into the sunlight, ease restored with a change of venue. Once beyond the kitchen gardens, Mrs. Herrera soon declared for sitting down. Diana stayed with her in the shade of box hedges, while Sophia and the Captain went on alone.

"I am afraid you will have a hot ride back to your brother's this afternoon," the sun already baked them under its wide yellow eye, "Where did you say they were staying? Perhaps if they cannot come to us, we might go to them. It seems odd to be in the same county and not go visit them."

She drew breath to go on again, but the Captain forestalled her.

"Miss Herrera, you must forgive me," he said, "I fear you must hate me."

"Hate you?" _that_ stole her breath faster than anything, "Why?"

"What I said to you in that letter...every time I think of it, I cannot but be amazed that you still spoke to me after receiving it."

"Which letter?"

"The one I wrote you after you told me of your father. I have regretted so much of what I wrote in that abominable thing; I have ever since it went overboard."

"Oh," she turned, allowing the sweep of her bonnet to hide the smile spreading across her face, "Sir, do not apologize. I took no offense from what you said. How could I have had any hope of a kind reception in light of...of what I had to relate?"

"I did not mean to attach any shade of blame to you," he persisted, voice distressed, "What was there to blame you for? Taken logically, what _could_ you have done in light of your father carrying on what was a perfectly legal business? Should you have thrown your inheritance in his face? Left his house with no means of support?"

He was berating himself, not her. All this time, Sophia had worried about his opinion of her, when he had been ashamed of what hers must be of him. Having prepared herself these many weeks for justified recriminations, many of which her conscience told her she fully deserved, this heartfelt sympathy knocked her off her guard. That these kind words were also accompanied by the Captain's solid, warm arm beneath her own and his handsome, earnest face was enough to make her desperate for a seat.

"Thank you, sir," she whispered, "I do not deserve this."

A ripple of agitation shook him where he stood. "You do. You must know that my feelings—" he checked himself, which was fortunate, because Sophia was now more carried away than she had ever been, and would not have been responsible for whatever rejoinder she would have made to his declaration. She still could not meet his eyes.

"It is _I_ who must apologize. I have always admired you. Before, though, I admired you for foolish, simple reasons. For being aware of the London game. For being intelligent, charming, and lovely. Now, though...I understand now how unworthy those reasons were in light of your true value. Before receiving that letter, I had no idea how badly I underestimated your worth."

Sophia staggered off a pace and sat heavily on a bench, all grace robbed from her by the coarse pounding of her heart. If she had sat instead on rough gravel, she might not have noticed. All that had weight and matter in the world was the Captain's voice, which went on:

"Miss Herrera—Sophia—you have committed to the right course, though following it may mean ruin for you and your family. Nothing could be braver than what you have done. I came here today to tell you that. I could not go another hour without speaking."

"I thought you hated me."

He lifted her hand and pressed it with a hard kiss; she felt it like a bruise on her threadbare skin.

After a moment, her fit passed. She drew back her hand and he let her reclaim it.

"I am glad," it was hard to form the words when her throat was dry as a desert; it was almost impossible to lift her face to his, "Thank you for telling me. You are right; such things could hardly be said in a letter."

The Captain followed her change in sentiment and arranged his features and posture into something like indifference. Whether he succeeded or not was for Sophia to decide, but she could not; her glance still ventured no higher than his cravat.

"I will assure you again of Mrs. Mayfair's delicacy. She had I have discussed this at length. If it adds to your comfort, she assures me she feels as much respect for you as I do."

"Thank you," she seemed capable of producing no other phrase, but her heart was swollen with gratitude and must overflow somehow or it would burst. "She does not object to carrying our correspondence, then?"

"Not in the least."

"Good," she swallowed, rising under her own power on unsteady legs, "Shall we go back? The others will doubtless be wondering where we have lost ourselves."

He offered her his arm and with a bow replied, "Certainly."

Though Sophia cursed herself for the pitiful physical weakness that made accepting his arm imperative, she damned herself still more for the worm of happiness eating tortured trails into her soft, vulnerable heart as she did so. Domingo, blotted from existence by the brilliance of the Captain's renewed passion, now imposed himself again in her thoughts.

Sophia forced herself to imagine what joy she would feel at having _him_ by her side, shoving aside every nagging doubt that whispered it would not give her half as much satisfaction as she felt then.

"Diana knows."

The words tumbled out the moment her sister came into view, laughing with their mother at a pair of bees buzzing over the same flower. They brought Sophia to a dead halt, dragging her companion back a pace.

"She does?"

"It—the secret became too much to bear alone. She suspected something. I saw no need to hide it from her."

"I cannot suppose you should have. What does she think?"

"That," she paused, an incredulous laugh bubbling to her lips. Speaking in intelligible sentences became impossible. "She thought...you might hold us to some kind of...that your letter was a threat...and that I had been a fool."

She smothered her mouth in a handkerchief and gave over to a fit of giggles. The Captain hovered at her side, at a loss as to how to either soothe or stop her hysteria. Sophia bit her fingers at his bewilderment. He thought so well of her, thought her so rational and controlled; it would be a shame to ruin that with an over-indulgence in feminine weakness now.

She formed her thoughts with greater care. "Diana thought your letter might be a threat. As you know, any hint of our father's true business would ruin what glamour our charms and fortune can offer the world. Our charms and fortune are all we have to recommend ourselves to society. Without them, we might as well return to Spain."

"Do _you_ believe I intended to threaten you?"

"By no means. Nor would it have mattered. I believed the letter had a straightforward explanation; to inform me that you despised me for my weakness but needed my help too much to tell me so, honestly."

He shook his head. "I, despise you? Miss Herrera...I should wager this is the first time you have been glad to be proven wrong on two counts in a single day, is it not?"

"Captain," she paused, "you can have no idea."


	33. XXXIII

**XXXIII**

"An hour remains before we must dress for the ball. Will you come read Maria's latest?"

"I wondered whether you would ask me," Diana replied, keeping her voice low as Sophia's, so soft it blended with the hiss of silk threads in her embroidery, "Yes. Shall I provide an excuse for us to slip away?"

"Is one necessary?" Lady Worthington drowsed over her teacup, Lord Worthington—ephemeral presence though he was in the household—had retired from tea to his library, and their mother was holding forth with Miss Zora Beauchamp, their elderly second cousin whose young nieces had brought her over from the dower-house for the day.

The Beauchamp girls themselves were occupied over a book from the East Indies, one which somehow had slipped through Lord Worthington's tightly-woven net of propriety. The Herrera sisters had no interest in woodcuts, no matter how titillating, and were therefore left to their own devices of embroidery and cards.

"It would not be fair to startle them," Diana shrugged. At that instant, Catherine Beauchamp squealed, Lady Worthington snorted, and Sophia's expressive smile said it all.

"Very well. Let me stop by my room before I join you; Mr. Essex brought me some chocolates from Gunter's when he returned from London. I cannot possibly eat them all by myself."

"Poor Patrick," Sophia tossed in her hand at Solitaire and gathered the cards together, "I do not suppose you have altered your opinion of him?"

"Not in the slightest. If you really feel so badly, I am sure that should you pity him enough, his affection might be redirected. He stands in awe of your intellect, but an evening's conversation should set that to rights."

"You little imp! I will eat the better part of your chocolates for that piece of rudeness."

They slipped unnoticed from the room and fled upstairs together, slippers muffled on the soft rug that hugged each stair. A minute or two saw them sitting on Diana's bed, the letter and her box of sweets laid between them on her floral coverlet.

"Shall I read?"

"No indeed," Sophia regarded Diana, already stretched full-length on her bed, dropping candies into her mouth with the air of a decadent empress. "You look far too comfortable for that. Please," she stole a chocolate, "allow me."

She broke the seal on Maria's letter, unfolding only a single sheet of paper, a welcome relief after weeks of copied sheaves of her father's records.

Relief died as she read on.

_Dearest Sophia,_

_I am afraid. I have not met D at our usual meeting place by the citrus-seller in the market since my last letter to you five days ago, which, I consider may not even yet have arrived. No one—at least, no one I can trust—in our father's employ can tell me what might have happened to him. They only know he is gone._

_There is no where I know to go to find him. We never discussed what we might do if this should happen. Yet I do not know_ what _has happened. Is he discovered? Frightened? Run off? Ill? Worse? I cannot tell if it is any or all of these, but I am afraid of them all. I hope...I do not believe Papi could do anything drastic, but if he has discovered what D and I have been doing..._

_I can only hope that D is away, trying to find a piece of the truth our father keeps concealed somewhere outside Cádiz. He has done so before, after all. The difference this time is that he told me nothing of his trip before leaving. If I do not see him in another week, I shall ask father where he has gone. He will not think it strange if I ask about one of his employees, I hope._

_If you advise me otherwise, please write me immediately, I beg you._

_In haste,_

Sophia looked away from her sister's scrawled words, fear constricting her throat like a grasping hand. Diana had frozen, half-reclining, hand stretched towards her sweets. At Sophia's pause, she recollected herself and closed the box, slowly.

" _Has_ this happened before?"

"Yes," she said, reaching for the bundle of Maria's other letters that she had brought from her room. Her hands worked slowly to bind this one among the others as she continued, "Maria is right; Domingo has often gone away, trying to trace either father's goods or a suspected rendezvous with any merchant who may be funneling him money from slave profits."

"Father would not hurt anyone."

"Father has a temper," nausea rose in her stomach; climbed up her throat, "And if he fears his empire collapsing...besides, he is— _was—_ a slaver. He _has_ hurt people before."

"Oh, but this would be different!"

"Because Domingo is Spanish? Do you really think—"

She broke off, wretched. The man she loved, the sister she adored...both in danger at her father's hands, and she, powerless to help either!

Diana stilled Sophia's hands where they clenched tight around Maria's letters. But her own fingers were cold, and her face was pale as she said:

"I know he was your friend. I know how worried you must be. But you must not think such things about father. He raised Domingo in his employ. He would not hurt him, no matter how Domingo's actions will affect him. It would be like Papi hurting _us_ , or Maria. No, there is an explanation for this; your fears and Maria's are unfounded. Surely."

"I hope you are right," she did not say _I think you are wrong._ The gulf between those phrases was wide as the Atlantic and just as frigid. "All the same, I think Maria may have done all she can to help us. We are no closer to discovering father's secrets than we were when this all began."

"You will tell her to abandon the search, then?"

"I will tell her it is not worth her safety. Remember, Maria has not our resources. If father sends her from the house, where could she go? Our mother's friends never welcomed her; they hardly knew her! The only person she might go to is Duenna Garcia, but even she had her prejudices against Maria's heritage."

"She did not!" Diana snatched her hand back as though Sophia's doubt might be contagious, "She taught Maria as well as she taught either of us."

"You were so young, Di," shattering rosy illusions of the past was a dangerous game, far more likely to hurt than heal, but it had to be done, "How could you possibly have understood what it was when Maria was sent from the room for having unruly hair, or mocked for an accent she could not help? How many times did Maria have to leave to help the cook, her lessons unlearned when we were free to keep studying?"

"Maria was in a better position than most of her station," she turned away, sliding her legs off the bed. Even so, Sophia could see the strain in her pursed lips. "How many men of our father's standing would have let a child of a former marriage study with his own daughters?"

Sophia was struck absolutely dumb. Illusions were one thing, but _this—_

"Is this the fiction you told yourself, all these years? You know as well as I that Maria was not the product of any proper marriage."

"Keep your voice down," Diana hissed, "Mama may have come up to dress by now."

"I will," Sophia did lower her voice; no one need hear what she had to say, "but you must answer me. Is that what you truly think?"

Diana stood, stalking towards the window, where her figure turned into a dark silhouette against the paling afternoon sky. "That was the lie we all told ourselves, was it not? Mama could only suffer Maria's presence if she made herself believe it. And the lie saved Maria from many things. A half-negro girl might have been sold the day she was born, and you know it! Instead father raised her with us, allowed her to study and play with us!"

She turned, but the contrast of sunlight and shadow was too strong for Sophia to discern her expression. She did not need to, however, to hear the tears in her sister's voice.

"How can you think about what father did for her and assume he would hurt _anyone_ under his protection?"

It was an odd thing, to speak of bastard children and murder on an English afternoon, with its warm, genteel sun streaming cheerfully in on the coverlet, animating the embroidered flowers thereupon like a living garden. Sophia swayed, dizzy in the moment of pure unreality.

"Are you well?"

"Yes. Yes, of course. It is only that, in this matter, I always saw father as grossly unjust. I saw the differences between Maria's state and ours and considered them insupportable. But you have built him up as a hero."

"Can you deny that what I have said is true?"

A sticky silence stretched between them. At length, Sophia replied.

"No."

She persisted. "Can you deny that Maria holds a comfortable position as housekeeper because of our father's generosity in educating and training her as a lady?"

"Is she a lady as we are? Free to join society without the fetter of her heritage keeping her chained?"

"Are _we_? Sophie, you want the world to act in ways in which it has never acted! Could father have treated Maria as an equal, given her a fortune, sent her to London with us?"

"Yes, he could."

Diana tossed up her arms. "He _could_. He had that _right_. But could he have then demanded that she be treated with respect, a motherless girl of a Negro slave?"

The case, set so clearly before Sophia, was—in the butter-yellow light of an English afternoon—more hideous than she had ever seen it. Truth struck her numb and mute.

"I love Maria as much as ever you could, but if father had sent her to London it would have destroyed all our prospects."

"Because you would have been tainted by her mixed blood, you mean?"

"So would you. What good would it have done Maria, either? Her thirty thousand pounds would only have attracted some younger son of a dying house, who would have sunk that money at the card tables or into an unprofitable family estate."

Sophia wanted to contradict her, willed her mind to produce some argument that would unravel this endless parade of ugliness. Yet she could not. She could not even will herself to be angry; cold facts lanced all choler from her heart, leaving it beating only because it had no choice but to carry on.

"I never used to think you cold."

"The world is cold," Diana replied, her lips now pulled so tight her words could barely escape them, "I saw the truth of that in our childhood, when Mama would take me into her parlor while you and Maria were out riding. Or drawing. Or sneaking into Mass. She would take me into her parlor and tell me how the world was. That—"

The column of her marble throat worked once and then cut the flow of her words.

Sophia, sick and dizzy to the point of fainting, was grateful. She could bear to hear no more, and Diana was trembling where she stood. She rose, pressing her sister's hand—in sympathy, in apology—and murmured sorrowful nonsense into the mass of her coiled braids. Diana dropped her head to Sophia's shoulder and breathed through gritted teeth, a rasp of steel over a whetstone.

"I _love_ Maria, I do, but I could never show it the way you could. Mama was always telling me that one day we would leave for England and never see her again."

The word 'never' was an icicle in her stomach. It froze everything but the immediate certainty: _that should never be._

A new light shone on their childhood, and Sophia was horrified to see its cobwebbed corners thick with spiders. Never had she suspected Diana's practiced hand at society's game and cynical manners were products of their mother's mild poison, dripped night after night into her ear. Only an hour before she had believed Diana to be—if not ignorant of their sister's suffering—at least kindly indifferent. Oh yes, Sophia had believed Diana loved Maria, but not to the point of working to help her. Not if doing so compromised her own chances at a comfortable, indulged life.

Yet, in Diana's mind, she _had_ loved and helped Maria as much as may be. She had stood between the two of them and their mother, playing the dutiful daughter consoling a woman consumed on one hand by jealousy of a child she had not birthed and fear that this orphan would one day cause her own children pain.

Everyone had acted rightly, according to the world's many definitions of right, and they had all done wrong together.

"You know how the world is," Sophia began, "but do you not see that it is already changing?"

"Not quickly," Diana spoke into her neck, shaking her head, "What difference has abolition made? The Colonies are as greedy for slaves as ever, and if you are right, our own father still supplies the demand."

" _We_ have been welcomed in society. Half-breeds."

"We are welcome because we have money," Diana's frustration began to evaporate her tears, "Maria has none."

"She would if we divided our inheritances with her."

"Are you mad? In what world do you imagine our father will permit that?"

"A world in which he believes he is on the brink of ruin."

Diana drew back askance. "I do not like that look. You know you are not a schemer."

"I know," an idea was forming, slow, ponderous, but inevitable, "The problem thus far may be because I have been scheming rather than thinking."

"How so?"

Sophia took Diana's hand between both of hers, nurturing it as she nurtured her fledgling idea. "We have been flogging ourselves and running all manner of risks to find proof of father's crimes. What if we told him we already had it?"

"Then, if you are to be believed, he might murder both our sister and Domingo," Diana's sarcastic drawl made it plain _she_ believed none of it, "Then we should still be without proof. _And_ disinherited in the bargain."

"We would move carefully. Domingo and Maria would both need to be beyond his reach, which means beyond Spain."

"You would bring them here?"

The idea was almost perfect now, articulated in every detail. "Yes. They come here. We then tell our father they brought us evidence of his crimes. We tell him we will go to the authorities unless he agrees not only to secure our own fortunes without any need for matrimony _and_ provide Maria with an inheritance of her own."

"Blackmail our own father?" her tone dripped with disgust, " _This_ is your plan?"

Carried away by her genius, beguiled by the first shimmer of hope she had seen in months, Sophia ignored Diana's distress. "It would work! He would risk anything, I am sure, rather than be undone. If he does as we ask, then we are free to marry or not as we choose, where we choose. Maria will also be at liberty. If he does not, then we were wrong."

"That is all? We would have destroyed our relationship with our own father!"

Sophia blanched. "Yes. I suppose we would have."

How could the truth of what must be done so clear when she spoke to Captain Mayfair and yet so murky when speaking to Diana? Truth was truth; she _had_ to believe it.

"And _I_ suppose," Diana shot back, recoiling from her sister's arms, "that if your plot is successful, we will be the ruin of both our parents, whether they deserve destruction or not. I cannot speak of this for one moment more. Please go. I need to dress."

Sunlight had abandoned the sky, and faint stars unveiled themselves from evening's first spreading shadows. Time had run away from them, and what had passed between them could not be wound back.

"Di—"

"Go," her tone left no room for remonstrance.

Sophia gathered herself slowly, assembling her body piece by piece as though she were made from shards of shattered porcelain.


End file.
